


Things We Lost in the Fire

by Harley_Sunday



Category: Sebastian Stan - Fandom
Genre: Brief mention of miscarriage, F/M, criminal activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27616171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harley_Sunday/pseuds/Harley_Sunday
Summary: During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only after do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a global crime syndicate and has you placed on a “no harm” list. You decide to pay him a visit after all these years
Relationships: Sebastian Stan x reader
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

“Well, fuck you too!” you sneer, flipping off whatever asshole cuts you off so bad you have to slam your brakes, the seat belt restraining you as you jolt forward. Jesus, can no one drive these days, or what? 

You want to give yourself a moment to recover from the near-hit but then some other asshole behind you honks a couple of times, urging you to get a move on. You flip him off for good measure too, cursing quietly because it’s not even seven in the morning and you’re already done for today. 

You’re still pretty pissed off when you pull into your designated parking spot at work, close to the entrance of Carver State Bank. You’ve worked here as a bank teller ever since you moved from Atlanta back to Savannah four years ago and well, it’s not your dream job but at least it pays the bills. You started out as a temp, not really interested in working at a bank, but you needed the money. Bad. And then when they offered you a permanent position after your three months were up, you figured, why not, and stayed. 

At Carver State you’re the only one of the tellers who works full time, the rest of them all middle-aged women who, at most, work three days a week. There’s five of them in total, and all of them are very kind. You have a soft spot for Bea though, the oldest of the bunch, because once she found out you were out here all by yourself, she decided you need some TLC. She checks up on you whenever you’re sick, brings leftover dinner to work for you to take home whenever she gets the chance, and she keeps hoping you’ll find a nice guy to settle down with. You even spent Christmas with Bea and her family last year. And honestly? You love it. 

Bea is also working today, but won’t be here yet because the bank doesn’t open until nine, and you only got in early to decorate Bert’s office, who turned fifty-nine this weekend and starts at eight every damn day. 

Rummaging through your purse you manage to find your keys just before you make it to the front door and once you open it, you hurry to the keypad to punch in your alarm code without really looking at the display. The lights that are supposed to come on automatically don’t, and so you wonder if the alarm was already disabled by someone else but you can’t check now unless you ask Bert to log on to the security system and that’s not really an option at this moment. 

The sun’s already been up for about an hour, so there’s enough light from outside to help you find your way to the back anyway, and so you figure there’s no harm done. But then you hear a sound coming from Bert’s office you wish you would have paid more attention to whether or not the alarm was activated. Your heart’s in your throat in an instant and for a moment you wonder what to do, because maybe someone’s robbing the bank, but then you hear a quiet, “Gosh darn it,” coming from the office and you can’t help but let out sigh of relief.

“Hi, Bea,” you almost whisper so as not to scare her, but she still does, clutching her pearls when you open the door. Just the sight of her instantly lifts your mood. 

“Oh, sweetie, don’t you ever do that again!” She slaps you with the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner she was trying to pin to the wall and then laughs when you fake being hurt.

“Oh, Bea, I’m sorry,” you say, pouting a little for full effect, “but why are you here anyway? Didn’t we agree I’d handle the decorations?”

“Oh honey,” she says, handing you the banner and thumbtack she was holding, “I’m sure we did, but I really couldn’t remember, so I figured I might as well come in to either do it myself or to help you.” She grabs a bag of balloons from the desk and pulls one out, stretching it and bringing it up to her mouth, but not before she says, “You do the banner, hon, I’m better at blowing anyway.”   
  


=X=X=  
  


The rest of your workday is pretty uneventful, except maybe for the second serving of cake Bert offers you after you’ve given him your best rendition of ‘Happy Birthday To You’ with the fake British accent you mastered at University. Don’t ask. 

Bea’s in the middle of telling you how she excited she is her grandson Zachary starts Kindergarten next week and you are trying your very best to make it look like you’re paying attention when really you’re trying to figure out whether or not it would be weird to go get a cocktail after work. By yourself. On a Monday. Because goddammit, after the morning you’ve had, with that near-collision, you’d sure as hell deserve it.

You have just dutifully hummed to let Bea know you’re still listening, or pretending to anyway, when the automatic doors open and a young couple walks in. As most young couples do, they head straight to Bea and so you stand up, relieved to get a break from her monologue, because even though Bea is as sweet as they come, the woman sure loves to talk. You let Bea know you’re going to get a coffee just before she greets the clients and make your way out of the secured area to the small kitchen down the hall. 

You’re waiting for the machine to come to life, impatiently tapping your fingers on the counter top because it takes this thing at least a full minute to warm up, when you think you hear a noise coming from the front. It has you rooted in your place, your ears straining to hear anything else, but it stays quiet and so you wonder if you’ve imagined it. The machine’s finally up to temperature and you’re about to press the button for a cup of coffee when you hear Bea shouting something that sounds like, “Over my dead body!” 

You’re not sure if it’s instinct or those endless safety drills Bert puts all of you through every three months, but your body has reacted long before your mind does when you find yourself running to his office. You enter without knocking, slightly out of breath when you whisper, “You need to push the button, Bert,” before you run back out again.

You know you’re supposed to go hide somewhere, wait it out until the police comes after the call from the panic button goes through. Maybe even try to make it outside using the back exit, but you can’t leave Bea out there all by herself. What if something happens to her? What if something has already happened to her? You find yourself getting angrier the closer you get to the door, because goddammit, how dare they try to come here? How dare they fuck up your quiet Monday afternoon with their attempted robbery. 

Attempted yes, because if it is up to you they will not succeed. 

By the time you push the handle you are fuming and ready to give these fuckers a piece of your mind, but then you see three men standing on the other side of the secured area, all armed to their teeth with assault rifles and guns, and it keeps you rooted in your spot, your voice lost somewhere in your throat. A quick glance around the room tells you the young couple is nowhere to be seen and for a moment you’re thankful but then you can’t help but wonder if they had any part in this. Your eyes land on Bea then, who stands behind her desk, a defiant look in her eyes even though three men have their guns trained on her. All of them are quiet and for a moment you’re proud because it looks like Bea’s got the upper hand.

It’s then you spot the fourth, and what you hope is the last man out of the corner of your eye. He’s trying to pick the lock of the door that leads to the secured area you’re standing in right now, a groan escaping him when he spots you. He sounds annoyed as if you’re just a distraction he now has to deal with. He stands up quickly, drawing his gun and one by one the men turn to you as a sort of response to the sound guy four made. 

They are all wearing balaclavas as a disguise and so you can actually see their eyes go wide when they see you. For a moment you’re sure it’s because they weren’t expecting anyone else to be here, even though everyone knows there are always at least two tellers present in a bank at any given time, because security, but then it’s almost like they recognize you. 

One of them actually mutters a quiet, “Oh shit, it’s her.” 

As if on cue they lower their weapons and retreat, quickly leaving the scene of the crime without taking as much as a penny, leaving you and Bea stunned at what just happened.  
  


=X=X=  
  


“And you are sure that is what they said, ‘Oh shit, it’s her?’ and then they left?” the Detective asks you for what feels like the hundredth time. 

You nod, “Yes, I am sure.” 

You let out a frustrated groan because you’ve been questioned for over an hour now and honestly, it makes you feel like you’re the criminal. “I’m not sure I can give you any new information at this point. I’ve told you everything already,” adding what you hope is an exhausted sigh for good measure. “Can I go home, please?” you try and to your surprise the Detective tells you you can. 

He informs you that they’d like to do a follow-up interview tomorrow and lets you know that they’ll contact you when they have any leads or news regarding the case. “We would appreciate it if you stay in the area for at least a day or two, Miss,” he says while pocketing the tiny notebook he used during the interview, “or at least let me know if you are thinking about leaving Savannah.”

You nod, because it seems like a fair request, before the Detective dismisses you with a wave of his hand and a quiet, “Thank you.”

When you step out of Bert’s office you find him leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, “You ok?”

“Yeah,” you nod, because it sort of true. Sure, you’re still a little high on adrenaline, but other than that you feel fine. Maybe because the whole ordeal last only about twenty seconds or so. For you, anyway. “How’s Bea?”

“A little shaken up,” Bert admits, while walking you to the exit. “Her husband picked her up once they were done questioning her and she agreed to take the rest of the week off.” He turns to you, his voice unusually soft when he says, “I think you should too, kid.”

“What and sit at home, driving myself crazy thinking about this?” You shake your head, “No thanks, Bert, I’d rather just come in tomorrow.”

He sighs, knowing you’re too stubborn to take his advice, “At least start a little later then, ok? Eleven is fine.”

“Fine,” you huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest, not liking this special treatment. 

“Fine,” Bert mimics and gives you a wink. “See ya tomorrow.”

  
=X=X=  
  


You glance at your alarm clock again, letting out a frustrated sigh when you see it’s already three-thirty in the morning and you’re still wide awake, the events of earlier today replaying in your mind every chance they get. You know you’ll probably won’t sleep any more anyway and so you grab your phone, pull up Google and type ‘2019 bank robberies’, surprised when you get over six million hits within less than a second. You know banks get robbed left, right, and center, but you never expected to see ‘Georgia’ pop up in so many results, stunned when you read the headlines:

_Armed robbery in Macon, GA, leaves tellers tied up, but otherwise unharmed, in empty safe. Robbers walk away with half a million U.S. Dollars._

_Macon, GA, robbery linked to Atlanta, GA robbery._

_“These guys are professionals,” local Sheriff admits among ongoing investigation._

_Pembroke, GA, next target of band of robbers. Two people injured after public tries to interfere._

_Georgia robbers most likely part of a much larger crime syndicate operating nationwide. FBI now involved._

“Jesus,” you mutter quietly, after finishing reading the last article, your eyes wide in shock. It’s not so much that, if it really is the same group that’s responsible for all these robberies, they have committed an awful lot of crimes already, it’s more that they never seem to hurt anyone. The only time people got hurt was when someone tried to run them off the road after the crime occurred. From the stories they seem almost polite, which is weird. 

Not for the first time you wonder why and how they seemed to recognize you and more importantly, why they left after that. Does it have something to do with their unwillingness to harm people? Biting your lip you go over everything again, from the moment the young couple came in until the robbers fled the scene, but still there is nothing that stands out. 

  
=X=X=  
  


The sound of your phone ringing wakes you and you’re surprised to see it’s already eleven-thirty. Oh shit, you were supposed to be at work at eleven and so you’re sure it’s Bert calling when you answer with an, “I’m sorry, I overslept. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” 

“Uh,” the voice on the other end of the line is much deeper that Bert’s and you groan when you realize your mistake. “This is Detective Johansson, we spoke yesterday?”

“Yes, God, I’m sorry,” you sit up and cover yourself with your blanket even though he can’t see you, “how can I help you?”

“I just wanted to let you know we’ve gotten a hold of some of the security camera footage of the area, and I wonder if you could come in today to see if there’s anything or anyone you might recognize.”

“Uhm, yeah, sure.” You clear your throat, “When, uhm, when would you like me to be there?”

“One would be good,” detective Johansson says. “Just ask for me at the front desk.”

“Will do,” you say, but then you hear the call has already been disconnected and you look at your phone in disbelief. How rude. You shake your head and thumb through your contact list, pulling up Bert’s number to let him know you won’t be able to make it to work after all today, not surprised when he tells you he already asked Cathy to fill in for you for today and tomorrow. Just in case.  
  


=X=X=  
  


“Nothing?” Detective Johansson sounds a little shocked. He’s shown you footage of several security cameras, and one even captured the robbers in their getaway car, without their masks on, but the image is too grainy to see any facial features you might recognize. He must know this too but he makes it seem like it’s your fault. You decide right then and there that you really don’t like him. You’re sure he’s good at his job, but he’s got the social skills of a shark. 

He returns to the stills from the security camera footage inside the bank, once more lining them up as if you haven’t already studied every single detail. You have been here for almost two hours and Detective Johansson has been relentless in his questioning, making you go over everything again and again as if you haven’t already told him everything you know when he took your statement yesterday. 

“I’ve already seen these,” you offer quietly, “I doubt there’s anything else I can give you.” You let your eyes dart over the photos again and while you’re aware the Detective says something about looking harder, you hardly register it because all of a sudden your eye catches something on the left side of the bulletproof vests the guys are wearing and you hold your breath, because no, it can’t be.

You try to play it cool and hope you don’t give anything away when you let your eyes dart over the four photos again. On every single vest there is a patch with the letters JS on top over the number 82. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. At first you thought it was just the brand of the vests but now that you’ve actually seen what’s written there you know that it’s not. And you also know why they might have recognized you. 

Fuck.

Your mind is going a million miles an hour, trying to figure out what to do. The decision is made for your when Detective Johansson, rather unfriendly, tells you they’ll be in touch if they find any new leads, effectively dismissing you. 

You clear your throat and look up at the detective, “I’m sorry, I really wish I could help.”

He just nods and grabs the pictures, leaving the room without so much as waiting for you to follow him. 

“Asshole,” you mutter quietly, hoping none of the security cameras picked up on that.

You try to act cool as you leave the station but your heart’s racing and you tell yourself to slowly, slowly walk to your car so as to not draw any suspicion. Once you’re in your car you take your phone out of your purse, but then you realize you’re still in front of the police station and this might not be the best place to Facebook-stalk the person you think might have something to do with all of this, and so you start your car and head to Tybee Island, the twenty-minute drive doing nothing to calm your nerves.

  
=X=X=  
  


Finishing the coffee you’ve ordered you think back to the past twenty-four hours, because that’s how long it’s been since your life got turned upside down. To the minute. You’ve checked.

Not for the first time it feels like you’ve ended up in a movie, but the fact that you had to stop for gas on your way over here was a perfect reminder that this is still very much real life. No matter how bizarre it seems. 

The waitress brings you the bill even though you didn’t ask for it and you’re about to tell her there’s a thing or two about customer service she still has to learn, but then you figure you might as well get back to it, because there are some questions you desperately need answers to. 

You try to recall the pictures the Detective showed you and even though you are certain that, even with the knowledge you have now, there’s no one on there you recognize or know from when you were younger, the JS 82 is a dead give-away. It has to be him. But why? 

You’ve tried everything but there’s nothing about him on Facebook or Google, even though you aren’t really surprised, because why would there be? You’re sure most criminals would rather avoid social media. Just to be certain you try Josh as well, but also, nothing. That’s not surprising, considering how bad of a state he was in when you last saw him. You wonder if he even is still alive.

You turn your phone over in your hand while you look out over the beach and wonder if you should just swing by his house. Well, his parents’ house. You doubt he still lives there, even though that would make one hell of a headline: ‘Armed robber found living in basement at parents’ house.’ You can’t help but laugh when you picture the scene of him being arrested, taken from his room in nothing but his boxers. 

You shake your head and make up your mind, knowing it will probably lead to nothing anyway, but you just have to know. Maybe he has nothing to do with this and it’s all one big coincidence, but you won’t know until you go there, won’t you? 

You’re not sure if actually going to see his mother is a good idea, because what if the police have put a tail on you? You grin then, because you are definitely not important enough to be tailed. Jesus, you’re just a bank teller. Get a life.

Plus, if it really is him, you reason, well, they haven’t been able to catch him until now, so what would your visit change? It seems like the police still don’t have a clue who’s behind all this. You’re assuring yourself it’ll be fine. 

Leaving the money needed to pay for your coffee and a little tip on the table, you get up before you grab your purse and head back to your car. 

The drive over to his parents’ house doesn’t take long, also because you still know how to get there without your navigation, and are you really surprised it still looks the same as it did sixteen years ago? No, of course not. 

You hesitate for a moment before you get out of the car, because if anything this is all just fucked up, but you know if you really start to think things through now you’ll never make it to the door. It takes you a few minutes to pull yourself together but then you’re finally on your way. 

Taking a deep breath you ring the bell and it isn’t long before you hear footsteps coming towards the door. You hear the handle being turned and for a moment you wonder if he’ll be on the other side, but then you you see his mother standing in front of you and suddenly there’s this lump in your throat that you try your best to swallow away. 

“Oh honey,” she says, her voice as sweet as you remember, her Romanian accent still there somewhere in the background, even after all these years. “He knew you’d stop by. Come on, get inside,” her voice drops then, “don’t want anyone to see you.” 

She wraps her arm around your shoulder and closes the door with her left foot, the way she always did and which often got her scolded at by her husband, claiming her shoes left a mark on the door he had to repaint every year. 

You let her lead you to the living room where she points to the couch, “Sit.” You obey, of course you do, and watch as she heads towards the kitchen to get you a drink no doubt, but then she seems to think better of it and walks to the bar cart instead, pouring two glasses of Scotch. She hands you one before she sits down next to you, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you say, but you notice the way your voice catches in your throat, making it sound like you’re asking a question. You want nothing more than to have her explain everything to you, but you don’t know how to start and so you just sit there, the sip of Scotch you took burning its way down your throat.

“I really can’t tell you much,” she offers after a while, because like always she knows exactly what you think, “but he wanted me to give you this.” She takes a folded envelope out of her bra, an apologetic smile, “Sorry, honey, had to keep it safe.” She laughs then, “At least it’s warmed up.” 

You can’t help but smile too and carefully take the envelope from her, putting it in the side pocket of your bag. That’s for later.

“He also wanted to give you this,” she continues while she takes something out of her purse. It’s a single key, no ring, no marker. She gives it to you, “Pawleys Island. I’m sure you remember the address?”

You nod, because yes, yes you do. You know this will lead you to the last beach house on Atlantic Avenue, where you spent many summer days with him. Happy memories start flooding your mind, but you push them back. For now at least. Maybe tonight you’ll let them in. 

His mother puts her free hand on your arm, interrupting your thoughts, and gives it a little squeeze, “I really wish I could tell you more, but he made me promise not to. Plausible deniability, I guess.”

You’re not sure if she’s talking about her or you. 

She smiles then, “He’s changed, I mean, that much is obvious, but,” she clears her throat, “the boy we both know and love is still in there somewhere. It’s not all bad. Just,” she squeezes again, “just hear him out, ok?” 

You nod, because you don’t trust yourself to speak, tears already threatening to spill from your eyes. Being here, talking to his mother, it takes you back and it reminds you of all the good times you had and you can’t help but wonder what happened. Well, you sort of know what did, but you wonder what got him there and if the dots you are slowly starting to connect are the right ones. 

You know what you’re doing is wrong and that you should probably just call Detective Johansson and tell him everything you’ve found out so far, but you just can’t. You want to hear the other side of this story first. 

You want to know why your high school sweetheart started robbing banks.


	2. Chapter 2

The drive from his mother’s house to yours is short, with only a quick stop for dinner at the Italian place you’re pretty much a regular at. You like it there because they know not to bother you with any small-talk and they always let you eat in peace. It’s also where he took you on your first date, so…

The first thing you do when you get home is text Bert, giving him some lame excuse about how this is all much tougher than you thought and how you need more time to recover. You ask for two weeks off, because that seems reasonable, and of course he agrees. Tells you to look after yourself and makes you promise you’ll let him know how you are doing sometime next week. It feels bad lying to Bert, but it appears your morals left you at the same moment those robbers left the bank. 

Next, upstairs in your bedroom, you grab a chair to pull out an old battered cardboard box from somewhere deep in your closet and set out looking for your senior yearbook. You find it easily enough, even though you’re not sure why you think you need it.

It sits in your lap now, the fingers of your left hand absentmindedly tracing the embossed letters on the cover. Your right hand is holding a glass of Scotch, because that seems to have become your go-to drink every since this started. You swirl the ice cubes around in your glass, letting out a sigh, finally opening the yearbook. 

You find the page that has pictures of the senior prom quick enough and you feel a sad smile forming on your lips when you see the picture of Sebastian and you as the homecoming king and queen. God, you were so happy then. You remember being giddy all night but especially after you two were crowned, because never in a million years would you have thought you’d be elected king and queen. To this day you still wonder if Josh had anything to do with it. He must have. There was some shady shit going on during the election that you know the principal tried to get to the bottom of but couldn’t and so he had no choice but to validate the outcome. 

Sebastian and Josh were thick as thieves and best friends for as long as you could remember, their families living next to each other long before both boys were born. They were troublemakers, but never in a bad way, not really anyway. They got really into graffiti at some point, but nothing more than that. Or at least, that’s what you thought. 

It wasn’t until a few years later that you found out Josh was into some pretty shady shit during senior year.

Your fingers caress the picture gently and there’s a quiet, “Oh, Seb,” escaping you because what the hell ever happened to you two? It’s then you remember the envelope his mother gave you and you reach for your purse that’s sitting on the ground next to the couch. You take out the envelope and spot his handwriting on the back immediately, a hastily scribbled _Lubirea Mea_ in the center. 

My Love

There’s something wet dripping down your cheeks and it takes you a moment to realize you’re crying. Weird. Must be the Scotch. Or the trip down memory lane you’ve embarked on today. Or the fact that even now you still you remember the few Romanian words he’s taught you and how he’s still calling you this after all these years. 

You became friends in sophomore year, when Mrs Ellis sat you next to each other in art class and you admired the drawings he had decorated his binder with. Then, in senior year, he asked you to be his girlfriend on New Year’s Eve. He had taken you on a few dates in the weeks before that, but nothing compared to the big party Josh hosted at his parents’ beach house that evening. 

Just going there and being seen together made it official to the outside world. 

Sebastian waited until it was almost midnight to confess he had a crush on you and kissed you passionately for the first time just as the clock struck twelve and fireworks erupted all around you. It was romantic as hell and would set the standard for your relationship the next three and a half years. Because if anything, he was a hopeless romantic. The envelope you’re holding now telling you he probably still is.

When you went away to Columbus State University after high school and he stayed in Savannah you still found ways to make it work. After your second year you found a cheap apartment close to campus so he could stay with you without a roommate to worry about. The first couple of months of that school year were everything you wanted it to be because he came to visit you almost every weekend and you could see a future together slowly starting to form. He told you he’d been saving money, even though he wouldn’t really tell you how, just that he was working together with Josh on a couple of projects. It didn’t matter to you. All you wanted was to follow him into this dream of buying a house on the coast somewhere and raising a family together. 

You trusted him to do what was best for you two. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Because everything changed on your three-year anniversary. 

Josh hosted another one of his infamous parties at the beach house, which was now his after his parents decided to spend their retirement in the Bahamas, and, like every year, he invited you even though you hadn’t seen Josh since you left for university and weren’t as close to him as you once were. You knew by then Josh had a reputation in Savannah, his parties often raided by the police because they suspected drugs were being dealt and used. They never caught anyone and sometimes it almost felt like Josh was taunting them. 

You were hesitant to go to the party but Sebastian took you out to dinner first anyway, a fancy restaurant on the other side of town that was way too expensive as far as you were concerned but that he deemed fitting for your anniversary. Dinner was nice and not for the first time during your relationship you felt like everything was as it should be. And so when you finally gathered enough courage you told him the big news. 

You were ten weeks pregnant.

You’ve never seen him that happy before and you’ve never seen him that happy again since, because when you eventually made it to the beach house you were met with an awful sight. The house was completely engulfed in flames, police and firemen swarming the area, ambulances taking away the injured to nearby hospitals. You heard him curse quietly as he drove up to the house and it was then you saw Josh being wheeled out on a stretcher, unconscious, his body badly burned. Without saying a word you followed the ambulance to the hospital, waiting there for what felt like days even though it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours until the doctors informed you of his condition. 

Josh suffered third degrees burns on his face, chest, stomach, arms and legs, and the doctors could already confirm he’d lost eyesight in at least one eye, the second one being dangerously close to following. He would have a long road ahead of him, they warned you, if he even would make it out alive. You stayed in the hospital until his parents arrived the next day, but even then Sebastian never left Josh’ side. 

No matter how hard you tried, he wouldn’t meet you, wouldn’t leave the hospital in case Josh would wake up, and so you had to go to there to say goodbye to him when you went back to Columbus after the winter break was over. He seemed distracted, but you figured he was still in shock from everything that happened and sort of admired his loyalty to Josh. 

You talked on the phone a couple of times after that, but you never saw him after that last goodbye. Not when you told him you were stressed out about your upcoming exams. Not when you told him you missed him. Not when you begged him to please come see you.

Not even when you told him you’d lost the baby somewhere in the early stages of the second trimester. 

He was slipping away from you and there was nothing you could do. 

Eventually the findings of the police made it clear that the fire was drug-related and even believed to be an attack on Josh’ life. By then you had learned that Josh had woken up from his coma and that crime still raged in Savannah, some sort of retaliation of what happened that night. There were a lot of gang-related incidents and people were getting beaten up and left for dead almost daily. 

You called Sebastian some time in April of that year, fed up with everything, and ended things. You told him you were done. Well, you told his voicemail, because he never answered his phone anymore, and he sure as hell never called back.

You saw him only once after you broke up, in the local CVS of all places on one of your rare trips back to Savannah. You tried to avoid him, tried to make it outside without having to talk to him, but like always he found you easily enough. He tried to apologize for everything that happened, but all you could focus on was how terrible he looked, his face sunken in, his knuckles scraped and bruised, and you couldn’t help but wonder just how much he was involved in all of this. The crimes and the beatings and maybe even the drugs.

You dropped out of university shortly after, needing time to make sense of everything that happened in the last six months, promising the student counselor you’d keep in touch about finishing your last year. You never did. You moved to Atlanta to get away from everything, but mostly to get away from him and the memories of him. Atlanta was a nice distraction, at least the first couple of years.

It took you three years to not think about him every single day. Five years to pretty much forget about him and be sort of happy again. You made it to ten years before you started longing for Savannah again. Made it to twelve before you finally decided to move back. 

And now here you are, back in Savannah and back to thinking about him again. You wonder why he still has such a hold over you, because you are sure every normal, sane, person would just turn him in. But not you.

No.

You are sitting here, ten minutes after midnight, on your third glass of Scotch, still turning that fucking envelope over and over in your hands, the melancholy of it all settled somewhere deep in your chest. You put the glass down on the coffee table and sit back, taking a deep breath and then you open the envelope, carefully taking out the piece of paper that’s inside. 

You’re not sure what you expected, but not this.

_Vă rog._

Please.

You don’t make the drive to Pawleys Island right away. Not in the least because well, you’re definitely over the limit, but also because after reading his plea you suddenly feel so, so tired. You barely make it to bed, stumbling over your shoes that are lying on the floor somewhere and taking your sweet time trying to conquer the stairs while the world is spinning all around you. You vow right then and there never to drink again. Not that much, anyway. 

You sleep for at least twelve hours, waking up somewhere in the middle of Wednesday, the afternoon sun shining through your window way too brightly for your liking. By then it’s too late to make the drive, and so you decide to clean your house. It’s your go-to method of dealing with things when you’re upset and it’s quite useful to be honest. Once that’s done you find your trusted duffel bag and pack some clothes. You tell yourself it’s just in case, but somehow you know you won’t be back here for at least a couple of days. 

Once that’s done you order a pizza and decide to call Detective Johansson to let him know you’re leaving for at least a week, just to get him off your back. He doesn’t seem very interested and you wonder if you should have even bothered.

You’re up early, nerves keeping you from falling back asleep and so you’re on the road before eight, hitting a little bit of traffic on your way out of town, but things immediately quiet down once you cross into South Carolina. The sun is out and from experience you know it should take you about three hours to get to Pawleys Island, a beautiful drive, the memories of those endless summers coming back as you make your way down the 17, getting closer to the coast after Charleston. 

You stop for a coffee and something to eat in Georgetown because you doubt he’ll take you out to lunch once you get there. Panic hits then, because what if he isn’t even there? He doesn’t know you’re coming. It’s not like you made an appointment to go see him. Jesus, what if this was all for nothing? You try to calm yourself by reasoning that his mother must have let him know that you’ve come to see her and that he probably figured out you would come out some time this week. 

Wanting to get it over with you ask for a to-go cup at the counter and pour your coffee over, leaving your half-eaten sandwich on the table as you rush back to your car. It’s only about twenty minutes from here, but traffic is slow and so you quietly curse everyone on the road with you. 

A wave of nausea hits you when you pull up in front of the beach house. It’s been completely demolished after the fire and the house that stands there now doesn’t have any resemblance to the old house if not for blue window panes. Well, what once were blue window panes anyway. The exterior of the house is in decay, paint is chipping pretty much everywhere and the shrubs have grown so high they’re now covering the porch. It’s weird to think the last time you were here was over sixteen years ago. 

You sit in your car for a while, gathering up the courage you need for this. You wonder if he knows you’re here, if he’s already seen you from somewhere behind a window. How free does he feel here? Is this just where he hides out after a robbery or does he live here? Do the neighbors know him? Is Josh with him? God, you don’t even know if Josh is still alive. You shake your head to get rid off all the questions that are now going through your mind in a never ending loop and take a deep breath. You grab your purse from the passenger’s seat, finding the key his mother gave you in the side pocket, and get out of your car. 

Looking straight ahead you walk up to the house, a small path cleared in between the shrubs wide enough for you to pass through. You hesitate for a moment when you get to the door, but then you mutter a quiet, “Fuck it,” and open it using the key in your hand. It’s light inside, far from the dark drug den you were expecting, and it throws you off a bit. Closing the door behind you, you take it all in. It’s weird how normal it looks inside compared to faded exterior. It’s completely furnished and almost homely and it’s then you wonder if this is where he lives. You half expect a kid or a dog to come running at you from somewhere then because it’s been pretty bold of you to assume he’d still be single. God, there’s a lot you don’t know about him, you realize, and you wonder what version of him you’ll find here.

“Hello?” you call out, but there’s no reply. Curiosity drives you forward, passing the kitchen on your right, to the living room in front of you. Strangely enough the layout of the house is the same as before and so you find your way effortlessly. The far wall of the living room, on the other end of the house, is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, with a sliding door on the left side. 

The door is open and leads to a deck outside and it’s there you see him, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs. He looks relaxed, a cup of coffee in his hand, today’s newspaper on the table next to him. You tap on the glass of the door, not wanting to startle him even though you know you really should care less about his general well-being. But you want answers and those are hard to come by if you scare him to death, you reason. 

He looks up and over his shoulder, a smile creeping onto his lips when he sees it’s you. 

“Fuck,” you mutter quietly, because honestly, he looks as good as ever and your knees, your fucking knees, actually go weak. Using the door frame for support you step outside and see him stand up.

“ _Dragă_ ,” he says, his voice smooth as butter. 

“Don’t call me that,” you bite back, because does he really think he can still call you ‘babe’ after all these years. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, actually dropping his head and you feel yourself getting angry because what is he, an actor now? No way does he actually feel sorry. It’s all part of this act of his, you’re sure. His way to get redemption.

But is it? 

Because when he looks up at you again there’s this sincerity in his eyes that you’ve seen before. You’ve seen it every time he told you he loved you. Dammit. You decide you need some distance and so you walk back until you bump into the railing, leaning against it you cross your arms defensively, letting him know you’re not here for his bullshit. You take him in, all of him, and are surprised to see he hasn’t changed much. His eyes are still the same. A few wrinkles around them, sure, but still that same striking blue that you could get lost in for hours. His hair’s a little shorter than it was back in high school and there’s a little grey around his temples and in his beard but it suits him. 

He still has a lean physique but he’s much more muscular now, and you wonder how many hours a week he spends at the gym. He’s wearing a simple white and blue striped t shirt, his biceps stretching the fabric just enough so that you can tell he’s flexing. The jeans he’s wearing are dark blue, his sneakers so white you wonder if they’re new. He looks nothing like the hardened criminal you made him out to be, and much more like a happily married father of three that you hope he isn’t. 

God, what if he isn’t involved? What if he’s just like, their accountant or something? You shake your head you know he’s not. 

“Coffee?” he asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s standing up, but keeping his distance as he walks to the door.

It sounds like a normal question but this whole situation is absurd and so it takes you a while to reply. “That depends,” you finally say, one eyebrow raised, “am I just here for some small-talk or are you actually going to tell me everything?”

“ _Dragă_ , please,” he says, but realizes his mistake and quickly adds, “You’re here because I need-” he looks at you, “I need you to know everything.” 

“Then I’m going to need something stronger than coffee.” And, because you’re still angry, a sneer, “Babe.”


	3. Chapter 3

You decide to sit down on one of the deck chairs while he’s inside getting you a drink, the sun warming your face and so you close your eyes for a moment, enjoying the quiet that’s surrounding you. You find yourself getting more and more curious to hear his story, because what you’ve seen so far doesn’t match up with whatever you thought this would be. This isn’t some dank drug den in the middle of nowhere. He doesn’t look like a hardened criminal in hiding. It’s all very confusing and while you’re trying your hardest to make some sense of it, you know you’ll need to hear his side first. 

You’re preparing yourself for the worst, because what if it’s not just robberies? What if he’s done worse things? Will you be afraid of him then? Because it’s weird now, even here, in the beach house, where, well honestly, he has every possibility to kill you without anyone knowing, there’s no fear. You’re not afraid. Not of him, anyway. 

He returns then, two tumblers in his hands, handing you one before he sits down on the other chair. You smell what’s in the glass, surprised to learn it’s Bourbon, always pegging him for more of a Whiskey guy. Nevertheless you take a sip, the liquor burning its way down your throat, making you shiver. You wait for him to start talking and so you sit in silence for a minute or so.

He clears his throat then, “It’s not going to be easy.” He looks at you, “It’s not,” he hesitates, “it’s not a nice story.”

You nod, “I figured as much.”

“It starts way before you think it does, so I just,” he clears his throat again, “I’m sorry. For everything. I just want you to know that.” 

“Ok,” you all but whisper, even more intrigued now.

“It started in senior year,” he says, very matter-of-factly. “Josh started growing some weed in his basement and I don’t know, it sort of escalated from there. It was nothing at first, I mean, I think he sold to maybe three or four guys at school, but then word got out that he’s the one you should go to for the good stuff,” he scoffs, “and by the time we graduated he was the main supplier for pretty much everyone south of West Victory Drive. But I think maybe you know that?”

You nod, because you do. Not back then, but it was all over the local news after the fire. 

He takes a sip of his Bourbon before he continues, “I didn’t get involved until after you left for university, but once I did, things moved fast. Josh changed from weed to Adderall then got his hands on XTC and I don’t know, things just took off from there.” He turns to you, “He made some shady deals over the years and by the time you came back for winter break and we celebrated our three-year anniversary, well, things were bad.” 

You nod, willing him to continue even though you are upset to learn he was involved with all of this while you were together. Were you really that stupid or was he just really good at hiding things? Then again, it was always him coming to see you, you never met up with him in Savannah except during longer breaks, so it must have been easy for him to keep this from you. 

“People were after him, claiming he owed them money,” he shakes his head and sighs. “There was another group that said he dealt in their territory and they actually put a bounty on his head. And uh,” he runs a hand through his hair, “somehow these people, the ones who said he owed them and the ones who said he was meddling where he shouldn’t, well, they teamed up and the result was what happened that New Year’s Eve.” 

His voice drops when he continues, “They targeted him, specifically. They uh, threw Molotov cocktails pretty much through all the windows on the ground floor because they knew he was there. One actually hit Josh in the chest and then exploded when it fell on the floor. That’s how he got so badly burned.”

“I felt responsible,” he looks away now, his eyes focused somewhere on the horizon. “I felt really guilty that we were out having a good time, while he was attacked. I mean, by this point we were very much in this operation together, but he was the face of it, you know? He was the one who was in contact with all these suppliers and buyers and I just was his second-in-command, but in the background. No one even knew I existed.” 

He takes another gulp, emptying his glass, “And yet I was the one in control of finances. I was the one who told him to expand his working grounds. So for him to end up like that, you know, I don’t know, sometimes I feel like it should have been me. Or at least I should have been there in the house with him.” 

“I think that’s why I uh,” he shakes his head, “I think that’s why I ended things the way I did with you. I felt like I was in so much debt to Josh that I just, I had to be there for him. I felt like I owed him my life and that I should do whatever I could to make up for it.”

“But you never ended things,” you say quietly, correcting him but not looking at him. You take another sip of your Bourbon, emptying the glass, more defiant now, “I ended things. I was the one who, after four fucking months of nothing, called you, remember?” You’re seething now, the venom dripping through your voice, “And then I had to tell your fucking voicemail we were through because you couldn’t even sum up the decency to answer the phone.” You turn towards him, “You just disappeared on me pretty much the moment it happened. I had just told you I was pregnant, for fuck’s sake.”

You hate that there are tears in your eyes but that’s what happens when your angry, and you’re sure he remembers it too because instead of trying to comfort you he actually looks afraid. You scoff then, “I hated you, you know that? It took me three fucking years to get back on my feet.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but you’re not done yet and so you shake your head.

“I would have understood it, you know, if you just wanted to focus on Josh for some time, but I had a fucking miscarriage and you didn’t even,” your voice catches in your throat then and you know the ugly crying is about to start but honestly, you couldn’t care less, “you didn’t even care. You didn’t care.” 

Instead of waiting for an excuse you grab your glass and get up, making your way to the kitchen for another round of Bourbon. You wipe your nose with the sleeve of your cardigan before you slam your glass down on the counter, reaching for the bottle. You’re sobbing then, big fat ugly sobs, because Jesus, what even if your life right now? You allow yourself a couple of minutes to just let it all out, not caring about how you’ll look once you get back outside. 

Once the crying’s subsided you pour yourself a stiff drink, and you’re about to put the bottle back down but then you think better of it and take it back outside where you find Sebastian still in his chair. The sun is lower in the sky now and it’s only therefore you see there’s something glistening on his face and you realize he’s crying too. Really?

“Don’t,” is all you say.

He nods, “I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper, “I know I have no right to be sad about it now, and-” he looks at you, “and I know you’ll never believe me, but please know that I do.” He smiles a sad smile, “I do care about you. Even after all these years.”

“Yeah, well you had one hell of a way of showing it back then,” you huff as you sit back down, putting the bottle on the ground next to your chair. 

“Back then I was an asshole.”

“And now you’re not?” You scoff, “Now you’re just a criminal?”

He shrugs, not replying. He continues with his story instead, “Josh was in bad shape when he woke up. I think it was somewhere at the end of January, maybe early February, but you know, he was blind, in one eye at least, the other barely functioning, the front of his body was covered in burns, it was terrible.” 

He stops then, taking the bottle from where you put it and filling his glass. Taking a sip before he continues, “But it still wasn’t enough for whoever was after him to stop. His parents had security posting outside his door all hours of the day. Private security because by then the police had figured out what had happened and wanted to arrest him the moment he’d get out of hospital.” 

He chuckles then, “He was in there for two years. They actually had to wait for two years before they could take him in. And even then the judge put an end to his prosecution before it even went to trial. Said he was punished enough.”

“So while Josh was in hospital I tried to round things up, you know, business-wise.” He nods, more to himself than to you, “I took out loans, settled every debt people claimed Josh had,” another chuckle then, “I’m sure I paid way more than I should have, but I didn’t care. And I’d do it all over again.” He leans back in his chair, “And I thought that was it, you know? It took me a year, but as far as I knew, that was it. So after that things settled down for a bit. I mean, Josh was still in the hospital, but he was making progress, and I actually got a job. I worked as a mechanic and while the pay was absolute shit, I felt like I was doing something right, you know?”

He clears his throat, “I thought of going to see you every single day once I got that job. I figured I’d just show up at your apartment, and do whatever it would have taken for you to forgive me.” 

“You wouldn’t have found me there,” you say quietly. 

“I know.”

“I moved to Atlanta the summer after we broke up.”

“I know.”

“Moved back here four years ago.”

“I know.”

It’s only then you register what he’s saying and you furrow your brows, “How did you know?”

“Later,” he says with a sad smile. “We’ll get there.” He looks at his watch before he turns to you, “It’s almost six, maybe we should grab something to eat first?”

“You really want to go out to eat?” You don’t even try to hide the surprise in your voice. Is he really so certain no one has linked him to the robberies yet that he’s ok with going to public places?

He must see the confusion on your face because he quickly adds, “There’s that really good Thai place that delivers here.”

“Ok,” you agree. You could do with some food anyway, that Bourbon has gone straight to your head and so you’re actually swaying a bit when you follow him inside. You steady yourself against the kitchen counter when you watch Sebastian place the order by phone, somehow not surprised when he orders your favourite. Once you’ve found your footing again you make your way to the bathroom, by now almost expecting to find it in the same place it was before. And it is. You start to wonder who had the house rebuild? Josh or Sebastian?

You avoid looking in the mirror once you’re done, certain you look an absolute mess but not caring because he’s seen you in worse shape anyway. You find him in the living room, sitting in one of the chairs, with the radio playing a song you recognize from your high school days. You wonder if he’s done that on purpose but don’t want to ask. Instead you sit down on the couch, your legs folded underneath you, not sure where to go from here. 

“How did you know it was me?”

His voice interrupts your thoughts and you’re not sure you’ve heard him right, “Sorry?”

“At the bank? How did you know?”

“The vests,” you answer with a small smile as you remember. “God, you and Josh and that graffiti phase during senior year. Tagging everything with ‘JS 82’. I’m surprised no one ever figured out it was you two punks.”

“Yeah, well, it could have been anyone, right?” He chuckles, “Anyone with the initials ‘JS’ born in eighty-two at least.”

“Hmm,” you reply, not really agreeing. They really thought they were being clever, using the letters of both their first names instead of their initials and their birth year for their tags. You just thought it was dumb. 

“Why did you go see my Mom?”

“What’s with all the questions, Stan?” you ask. “That’s not why I’m here.”

He shrugs, “Just curious.” 

You suddenly realize something, “How long has she had that letter?” 

“Since Monday.”

“Right,” you draw out, “so you only gave it to her after it happened?”

“Well, not me personally, but yeah, someone did.”

“And is this because those four guys at the bank recognized me?”

It’s then the doorbell rings and he excuses himself, but not before he offers, “We’ll get to that later.”   
  
=X=X=  
  


Dinner is spent in relative silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts. It’s nothing new. Even when you were dating you’d go hours without talking to each other, something most people found very strange. You always reasoned that it must be a good sign when even the silences feel comfortable.

You think back to the last part of your conversation. It just doesn’t make any sense with the guys recognizing you and him not giving the letter to his mother until Monday. Something feels off, but you’re not sure what yet. 

You watch as Sebastian clears away the plates and leftover food once you’re done and you follow him because you could really do with a coffee right now. Something tells you it’s going to be a long night. Without asking you find your way around the kitchen, pulling everything you need out of the cupboards before you turn on the coffee maker, just like you have done so many times before. It’s weird, this new house with its old layout, all these memories you have here, the new mixed with the old, the hurt mixed in with the good times. 

You hand him a cup of steaming hot coffee not much later and follow him back into the living room. You sit down on opposite ends of the couch this time, facing each other, and without any preface he continues his story.

“About eighteen months after the fire Josh’ parents died. Car crash while they were on their way to the hospital.” He nods at your sympathetic look, “Yeah, Josh took it pretty hard even though the relationship with his parents was even more strained than before.”

“God, I remember that,” you agree, “they were the worst. Always away on business trips, giving him everything he wanted so they could just buy his love instead of just being there for him when he needed them most.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian sighs. “Well, it was like that after the fire, they were hardly around and when they were it was just to pay for everything. Or at least, that’s what we thought.” He takes a sip of his coffee, “After they died we found out that they hadn’t paid any hospital bills for at least ten months. The security guys? Never paid. Got laid off after twelve months, when I settled everything and there wasn’t a real threat anymore, but they never saw a dollar.”

“But I had all those loans that I was still paying off, and Josh didn’t have any money either and we’re talking about at least eight hundred thousand, right?” He looks down, “So I did what I had to. I got a team together and we started small, you know,” he smiles apologetically, “liquor stores, gas stations, those sort of things. But it got us nowhere.”

“So I made a plan. We would start robbing banks. And it worked.” He doesn’t sound proud. If anything he sounds almost disappointed. “I planned everything, made sure everything was prepared, organized, so they’d just be in and out in a matter of minutes. I made them promise never to hurt anyone and they never did.” 

“How many?” Your voice is hoarse even though you’re not sure why and so clear your throat and try again, “How many banks did you rob?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus,” you look at him with what you hope is an angry look. 

“Thirteen robberies in almost fifteen years.” He sets his now empty cup down on the table before he turns back to you, “We only took what we needed. I know it sounds like bullshit, and in the beginning we robbed a lot of banks and we walked away with a lot of money, because we needed to cover all those bills. We always made sure we had a little extra, you know, so there were quite a few years where we wouldn’t do anything.”

“So why start up again now?” You ask, remembering those news articles you read, “There have been three robberies this year alone.”

“Well, security’s much tighter these days, we don’t walk away with hardly as much,” he shrugs as if to apologize, “and Josh needs a new treatment, so-”

“So you are just going to fucking Robin Hood your way through life for him?” You feel yourself get angry again, “Don’t you think it’s enough, Seb? It’s been sixteen years, you did more than you had to. I’d say you’re done paying off whatever debt you think you owe him by now.” 

“He doesn’t have anyone else, _dragă_ ,” this time he doesn’t correct himself at the use of his nickname for you, “if I don’t do this I can’t pay his bills, he’ll get kicked out of the home he’s staying in and then what?”

“Seb,” you try again, but he interrupts you.

“No, Josh is like my brother, you know that. I can’t turn my back on him.” He quietly adds, “He needs this new treatment, if he doesn’t get it, well,”

“But what happens when you get caught, huh?” You’ve chosen your words with great care, using ‘when’ not ‘if’. You want to get him to see the severity of the situation even though you’re sure he already knows. “Who will take care of him then?” 

“Things have been arranged.”

“Oh please,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of your chest, trying to get your point across, “with who? With those guys who are actually doing the dirty work for you? They don’t owe Josh shit and I doubt they’ll keep their end of the deal if push comes to shove.” 

“That’s not for you to worry about, _dragă_.”

“Stop calling me that!” You’re angry again and so guess what, the tears are back. Fine, you think to yourself, might as well make the most of it then. You’re preparing to give him a real piece of your mind, but then he says, “Why are you so worried about me anyway?” and you’re caught so off guard that you just sit there, not saying anything.

He looks at you so intently that it feels like he’s trying to read your mind and so you get up and mumble something about needing some fresh air before you make your way outside. It’s dark now, the moon hanging low over the horizon somewhere in the distance. You rest your hands on the railing, taking deep breaths in the hope of calming yourself down enough to try and makes sense of all this. 

Because he’s right, why are you so worried about him anyway? 

He’s nothing to you anymore. He’s just an ex-boyfriend. Someone you dated in high school and college. Jesus, you broke up sixteen years ago. It shouldn’t mean anything anymore.

But oh, who are you kidding? Of course it still means something. He still means something.

There was a time when you couldn’t stand the thought of seeing him, when even thinking about him hurt so much it almost made you sick to your stomach. But then the years went by, and you grew up, and time softened whatever pain was left, and even though you hardly thought of him the last couple of years in Atlanta, he was always there somewhere at the back of your mind. And instead of focusing on the pain he caused you, you were able to remember the good times you had together and you often wondered what could have been.

You didn’t move back to Savannah because you missed the city. You moved back because you missed him. 

He was your first after all. First crush, first boyfriend, first guy you had sex with, first one you thought about starting a family with. And the first relationship you ended. You never really forget your first love. Isn’t that what people say? Well, they’re right.

Your conscience takes over from your heart then, and you’re almost berating yourself for forgetting the horrible things he’s done. He was involved in dealing drugs. While you were dating. He must have kept so many things from you. And by now he’s robbed thirteen banks for fuck’s sake. He’s the leader of a very well-organized group of criminals which makes you wonder if robbing banks is all they’ve done. Plus, he stole God knows how much money. 

But that was only so he could pay for his best friend’s hospital bills, wasn’t it? Oh fuck, you feel yourself starting to sympathize with him again. Why is this so hard? 

And why aren’t you calling Detective Johansson right now? You’ve got enough on Sebastian to just turn him in. And you know he wouldn’t deny it, because if anything the man’s a martyr, but you knew that already. You wonder how Josh feels about all of this. Because the Josh you remember, before the fire and the drugs and the whatnot, well, he was a good kid. And you can’t imagine him being ok with all of this. It’s then an idea forms and you walk back inside instantly.

“I want to go see Josh.”

“I’m sorry?” Sebastian looks up at you, a little shocked.

“You heard me,” you say, hands on your hips for full effect, “I want to go see Josh.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good-”

“Sebastian Stan, if I wanted to I could call the police right now and have them arrest you, so please,” you say with a sense of authority, “don’t try and talk me out of this.”

There’s a flicker of admiration is his eyes as he stands up. “Fine I’ll call ahead tomorrow, OK? Let them know we’re coming.” He walks over to you, a wicked grin playing on his lips, “Looks like you’re staying here tonight then, huh?”

You scoff, “As if you don’t already have an excuse as to why I can’t sleep in the guest bedroom and oh no,” you throw your hands into the air for added drama, “that means we’re going to have to share a bed.” 

He’s standing behind you now, his mouth close to your ear, his warm breath hitting you skin when he says, “As if you didn’t bring an overnight bag.” 

It sends a shiver down your spine. “Guess we both knew how this would end.”

“Guess we did,” he says as he gently pushes you forward, his voice filled with laughter then, “Go and get your bag, _dragă_.”  
  
=X=X=  
  


“Seb?” You turn around, facing him even though it’s dark and you’re not sure if he’s still awake. You’re in his bed, of course you are, but at least you’re wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. You came prepared.

“Yeah?” he says from somewhere in front of you.

You’ve been thinking about this for a while now and really need an answer, “How did you know I moved to Atlanta?”

He starts to say something, but you’re not done yet.

“And that I moved back here?”

“You’re not going to like this,” he offers quietly.

You scoff, “I doubt this is worse than all the other things you told me today.”

“Someone kept an eye on you.”

“What do you mean?” 

“That new neighbour that moved in to the same apartment building not long after you did? Mrs Johnson?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s the aunt of one of the guys in my team. I sent her to Atlanta after you moved there. Just so I’d know you were OK. And safe.” He sighs before he continues, “I got really paranoid at one point and I was certain they’d come after me and if they’d come after me, then they would figure out we used date and I was afraid that they’d come after you too.”

Fucking Mrs Johnson, you think. She was nice, no doubt about that, but you always thought there was something off about her. You giggle, because it seems pretty ridiculous, “So you had an old lady keeping an eye on me? Yeah, OK. Thanks, I guess.”

“An old lady who knew perfectly well how to handle a gun, thank you very much.” You can feel him move closer, “I just couldn’t stand the thought of someone hurting you.”

“Is there someone keeping an eye on me now?” 

“No,” he whispers. A little louder then, “Not since you crossed into South Carolina, anyway.”

It’s too late and you’re too tired so it takes you a little longer to connect the dots but when you do you actually gasp, “But then you knew where I was working all along?” 

“I did.”

He’s too close and it distracts you from more important things like, “Did those four men knew I worked at Carver State before they came in?”

“No.”

“Then how did they recognize me?”

His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “They knew who you were. And they knew not to hurt you. They had very clear instructions to retreat if you ever were around, be it at work or as a bystander.”

“When did you give them these instructions?” you whisper against his chest.

“Monday morning.”

Well, fuck.


	4. Chapter 4

As you turn around you reach for your phone, pressing the home button so you can see what time it is. Not even ten minutes later from the last time you checked, and so you sigh and figure you might as well get up. It’s still early, but Sebastian’s been up for almost half an hour already, which you know because you pretended to be asleep when he got out of bed. Very mature, sure, but you didn’t want to face him just yet. You hardly slept, all the events of the past four days playing over and over and over again in your mind, while you were trying to make sense of all of it.

You’re sure that what he’s told you is the truth, but you can’t help but wonder if this is all there is. If this is the entire truth. At some point during the night his mother’s words about plausible deniability popped up, but then you figured you already know too much for that to still be an excuse. You’re now officially an ‘accessory after the fact’, but you guess that technically you became one when you didn’t tell Detective Johansson about the initials on the vests and instead went out on an investigation of your own. You’re not sure why, because there’s no reason for you to not trust the legal system, and it’s not like you were blinded by love, if anything you were just curious. Stupid? Maybe. Well, definitely. But you’re in too deep now anyway, so you might as well continue, right? Even though you’re not sure where it will take you. 

It’s then the smell of freshly brewed coffee finds its way into your nose and are you really surprised he’s making you breakfast? No. Of course not. Without thinking you walk to the stairs and yell out, “Seb?”

“Yeah?” 

“Do I still have time to take a shower?”

You hear him chuckle, “Yeah.”

Grabbing a change of clothes and your toiletry bag you make your way to the bathroom, smiling when you see he’s laid out a set of towels for you. 

Once you’re done you turn the water off and it only takes a couple of minutes for you to get ready, your outfit a simple pair of jeans and moss green top, not bothering with shoes just yet and so you make your way downstairs on bare feet. You find Sebastian at the stove, making scrambled eggs, wearing black jeans paired with a black button-up shirt covered in, and you actually do a double take because are those fucking daisies? Huh.

You’re still not used to how much more muscular he is compared to the scrawny kid he was when you dated, but God does it suit him. You’re trying not to stare and so instead you sit down at the breakfast bar, helping yourself to a cup of coffee, your voice a little hoarse when you tell him, “Morning.”

“Morning,” he says from somewhere over his shoulder, no doubt grinning at the way you sound. “You sleep well?”

You clear your throat, “Sure,” even though you can tell by the way he looks at you that he knows you’re lying. You scrunch your nose, “Not really.” You see him nod and so you continue, “A little, but mostly my mind was just trying to make sense of everything.”

“I’m sorry,” he says as he puts a plate of toast and eggs in front of you, smiling when you thank him. 

“Don’t be,” you say, and you’re surprised to realize you mean it, ‘I’m the one that came here. I mean,” you hesitate, trying to find the right words, “I’m not stupid. I sort of knew what I was getting myself into.” 

He seems relieved by your answer and sits down opposite to you, “I called the home Josh is staying at and they let me know that today is not really a good day to come visit. He’s got a lot of therapy scheduled for today, so,” he looks up at you, half a smile on his lips, “they said we could come by tomorrow if we want.”

You return his smile, because of course this would happen, “Guess I’m staying another night then.” 

He laughs quietly, but there’s a gleam in his eyes when he answers, “Guess you are.”

=X=X=

“I have some questions,” you say, breaking the silence between you. “A lot, actually.”

You’re sitting on the deck, him with his second cup of coffee and you with a fruit salad you found in his fridge. It’s another sunny day, but a little cooler than yesterday, which is nice. The beach is almost empty except for a couple walking their dog and someone running in the distance. It’s hard to believe it will be packed again in a couple of weeks when the summer holidays start. 

“I’m listening,” 

You hold up your fork to let him know you need a second as you’re trying to come up with a logical line of questioning. But then you remember you’re not a cop and who cares what question he answers first and so you decide to just go for it, “Why now?”

He looks at you, slightly confused and so you clarify, “Why go to all this trouble to contact me now? Why not, I don’t know, two years ago?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I wish I could give you some profound answer about how our paths suddenly crossed again, or how I want to repay everything I’ve done to you, but the truth of the matter is,” he smiles but looks away then, “I need you.”

There’s such a sincerity in his voice that it feels like there’s something tugging at your heart now, making you tear up a little. 

“I know I can’t keep doing this forever,” he continues, still not looking at you, “because we’re either going to get caught, or Josh dies, whatever comes first,” his voice catches at the last word and so he clears his throat before he continues. “Josh isn’t doing too well, it’s uh,” he takes a deep breath, “it’s bad. He needs a new immuno-type of therapy, but even if he gets it, the doctors can’t guarantee a positive outcome. And so we’re,” he scoffs and corrects himself, “I know I’m getting more reckless. That’s why we have been around in Savannah so much lately. It takes less time to prepare for them, but,” he shrugs, “it also increases the risk of getting caught.”

He sounds so desperate and before you know it you’ve put down your bowl of fruit and put your hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, letting him know you’re here although by now you sort of wish you would have asked something else first. You don’t know what you expected, but not this. Not this. 

“This is the most selfish thing I will ever ask,” he admits, curling his hands into fists, “but I need you by my side. I know I shouldn’t have dragged you into this and part of me wishes you wouldn’t have come here, because it’s not going to be easy.”

You nod, letting him know you understand.

“It feels like I’m at a crossroads,” he shakes his head, “God, that sounds fucking lame.” He looks at you then, “No matter how hard I try, I can’t explain it, I just,” he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “I just know that I need you.” 

You look at him, studying his face, not surprised to find his eyes a little glossed over. And he’s right, he shouldn’t have dragged you into this, but then again, it feels like part of you always knew that this was how it would end. The two of you back together again, no matter the circumstances. After all, you never got a proper goodbye, you broke up with him through his voicemail for fuck’s sake. 

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you always thought the universe would somehow set things right, have you meet again, for whatever reason. 

Still, it’s all very confusing, even more so because you feel like you might be willing to give into his request. You wish there was someone you could talk to, to hear another person’s opinion, and for a moment you consider calling Bea, but there’s no way you’re dragging her into this.

You figure you need some time alone, if only for a little while, just so you can clear your mind, “I,” your voice is hoarse and so you have to clear your throat before you can continue, “I need time, Seb. I need time and I need answers and, I don’t know.” You smile a sad smile, “It’s a fucking big ask, for lack of a better word.” 

“I know,” he says as he takes your hand in his and gently presses it against his lips.

An idea has formed in your head then and you know it’s stupid but it’s the best you can do, and so you pull your hand back and stand up. And even though you don’t really owe him an explanation you give it to him anyway, “Why don’t I go and get us some food? Stock up your fridge and, I don’t know, just go out for a little while.”

He nods, “Yeah, I think that might a good idea, but uh,” there’s an apologetic smile on his lips then, “can we set a time when you’ll be back? Just as a precaution, you know? I mean, I don’t really expect anything to happen, but I don’t want to risk it.”

“That seems fair,” you agree and you’ll tell him you’ll be back at four, which gives you three hours. You lean down and kiss his cheek before you walk back inside, finding your sneakers in the living room and putting them on before you grab your purse of the couch, digging around for your car keys as you walk outside.

=X=X=

An hour later you find yourself doing another round at Lowes Foods, one of the clerks giving you a curious look when you pass her for the third time with your almost empty shopping cart.

“Can I help you with anything, ma’am?” she asks, a southern drawl to her voice that makes you take an immediate liking to her.

You’re about to tell her no, that you’re fine, but then you figure, why not, you still have two hours left before you need to be back and so you smile, “Well actually,” you look at her name tag, “Eileen is it? I’m cooking dinner for my uh,” you hesitate, trying to find the right word.

But Eileen gives you a wink, letting you know she gets it and grabs a hold of your cart, “Follow me.” 

It takes her twenty minutes, five alone spent on giving you her grandmother’s recipe for Catfish stew that she promises will be a hit, but then you’re loaded up and ready to go. You thank Eileen for all her help and somehow you’re not surprised when she gives you a hug and tells you good luck.

There’s still an hour and a half left once you’ve loaded the bags into your car and you decide to treat yourself to an ice cream over at Gilbert’s, hoping they still have that Lemon Custard flavor you loved so much back when Sebastian used to take you there. 

Even though she doesn’t recognize you, you’re happy to see the nice lady from sixteen years ago is still behind the counter, taking your order with a, “What will it be, sweetheart?”

She encourages you to take two scoops, because, she says, it’s her favorite flavor too and she always wishes she’d gotten more, and so you find yourself outside with an ice cream so big you pretty much have to inhale it to keep it from melting in the sun. Opposite of the store there’s a bench you sit down on, finally allowing yourself to think back at what Sebastian’s told you earlier today. 

You come to the same conclusion you came to this morning, you’re in too deep already. There’s this little voice in the back of your mind, surprisingly sounding a lot like Bea, that tells you to get out while you still can. You figure you could. And you know for a fact he’d let you. 

But could you really walk away now, knowing that Sebastian will have to face one of two things soon? Either his best friend dies because the new therapy doesn’t work, or he gets caught. 

That he’ll need you in that time of grief, well, there’s no question about that, but what good will it be if you’re there when he gets caught? He’ll probably end up getting a life sentence, because the usual sentence for a robbery is fifteen years. You’ve googled it. Multiply that by thirteen and it makes for a very long time. Does he really want you to visit him in jail every week for the next, oh, sixty years? And who’s to say you won’t end up in jail either? 

And yet.

And yet, you know he will do whatever it takes to keep you out of this should it ever come to an arrest. You’re sure he has a plan, maybe an escape, because he’s smart. He’s stayed out of the actual robberies. He’s never pointed a gun at anyone. Not that you know of, anyway. One more question added to the list of things you still need to ask. 

You feel a hand on your shoulder then and it startles you and you mutter a quiet, “Fuck,”

“I’m sorry, dear,” the old lady who was behind the counter says with a worried look on her face, “I just wondered if you were alright. You’ve been sitting here for an awful long time and you look terribly upset.” 

You try to smile, but fail, instead you find yourself crying in front of some stranger. “I’m sorry,” you sob, using the napkin that came with your ice cream to dry your eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the woman says, gently patting your knee, “anything an old broad like me can help with?”

You shake your head, because you doubt it. 

“Let me guess,” she says with a raise of her eyebrows, “there’s a man involved.”

You chuckle in spite of your tears, because yes. Of course there is. 

She nods in understanding, but her question is pretty straightforward, “Do you love him?”

“Yes.” It’s true. You love him. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. You guess part of you always knew that, but to say it out loud is something else, “I’m scared-”

“Love is meant to be an adventure, sweetheart,” she offers. She pats your knee once more before she stands up, “How do you feel when you’re around him?”

You smile then, wiping away the last of your tears, “Loved. Always.” 

Again, true. When you’re around Sebastian you feel nothing but love coming from him. Even back when you were dating. It was when you were apart, in those god-awful three months after the fire, that you felt his love disappearing. 

“Well then, there you go,” she shrugs, as if it is that simple.

But then again it kind of is. You look up at her, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” she walks back inside, but not before she makes you promise to take him with you the next time you get an ice cream. It’ll be on the house, she says with a grin. 

=X=X=

You’re back with five minutes to spare, hauling two full grocery bags to the front door before you open it and continue to the kitchen. You find it vacant and so you set the bags down and continue to the living room, which is also empty. A slight panic sets in then and you walk back into the hall, calling out, “Seb?”

“Upstairs,”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you hear his voice and follow it upstairs. You find him in the guest bedroom, that apparently has been converted to a home-gym, doing push-ups in nothing but black shorts. You lean against the door frame, crossing your arms in front of you, taking it all in - the muscles in his arms, his back, the sheen of sweat covering his body, and you feel your mouth going dry.

“Anything I can help with?” He asks with a grin, not dropping his pace.

“No, I’m uh,” you clear your throat trying to get your voice back, “I’m just going to unload the groceries I guess.”

“Ok,” he pushes himself up one last time before he stands up, grabbing a towel from the bench press next to him, throwing it around his neck. 

He steps closer to you, his hair wet from sweating and your eyes can’t help but travel from his chest down to his shorts, and you have to swallow. Hard. You expect him to comment on it, but once again he surprises you and instead kisses your cheek lightly, “I’m glad you came back.” 

You just nod, not trusting your voice right now.

“I’ll go take a shower and meet you downstairs, OK?”

“Uhu,” you say as your eyes follow him when he walks past you. God, he looks good and actually let out an appreciative moan that you hope he didn’t hear. 

But of course he did, because when he looks at you from over his shoulder before he opens the bathroom door, he throws you a wink, “We’ll get to that, dragă.”

=X=X=

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Sebastian tries again.

You nod, not looking up at him but instead focused on cutting the catfish into even pieces. The recipe Eileen gave you is simple, and once everything is in the Dutch oven all you have to do is wait. “I do have a question, though,” you say, because you figure now is as good a time as any to continue with your investigation. You see him nod out of the corner of your eye and so you continue, “Will you tell me more about the last thirteen years?”

“I’m not sure I understand, dragă,” he says as he puts the glass of red wine he’s just poured on the counter next to you.

“Tell me about the robberies. How did you choose your targets? How much time does it take to prepare. How much money did you walk away with?” You carefully put the now cut up pieces of fish into the pan before you wipe your hands on the tea towel that’s slung over your shoulder and take your glass, “What did you do in the meantime? I need to know more, Seb.” You take a sip of wine, “I mean, I’m not sure how much Mrs Johnson told you-”

“Enough,” Sebastian answers, looking at you intently.

It makes you wonder if he knows about the guys you’ve dated, but figure that’s for later. Instead you continue, “It just seems unfair that you know so much more about me than I do about you.”

“That seems fair,” he offers with a smile. “It’s nothing too exciting though.” He chuckles then, realizing what he’s just said, “I mean, it’s not like in the movies.”

“So tell me,” you try again.

He leans against the counter, on the other side of the stove, hands in his pockets when he starts, “I have a team of six guys that I met while I was still working together with Josh, and believe or not, they’re all pretty regular guys. I mean, of course they all dealt drugs back in the day, but now,” he stops and seems to think about something, “yeah, they all have day jobs, I mean, one works in a garage as a mechanic, another one has his own construction company. Based on the job I have planned, there are either three or four guys going in, but never more than that, and always in a different team.”

You’re shocked, because you expected these guys to be hardened criminals, not hard-working middle class and so it’s just weird.

He must pick up on your mood because he shrugs, “I know, it’s crazy, right? Of every job we do, fifty percent goes to Josh. Ten is for me, and whatever’s left gets divided.”

“And-”

“Do I have a normal job too?” He says, finishing your question for you. You nod. “Not really,” he answers, before reaching for his glass and taking a sip of wine, “We made some good money in the early days, and I took what I needed and invested the rest in some funds that made quite a bit of money over the years, so I don’t really need to work. I had my own gym for a while, when we were working more on the west coast, but I sold it five years ago.”

“I know it’s not what you expected, uh, but this way there’s less of chance we get caught.” He smiles apologetically, “I mean everyone’s just going about their day-jobs. It’s just a bunch of guys who have been friends for a long time, moved to different places across the country and yeah, sometimes they meet up for a trip with the guys somewhere, you know, nothing special. A lot of those trips have been to Savannah though, in the last couple of months.”

You nod, understanding what he’s getting at.

“That’s what I meant when I said I was getting reckless,” he explains with a shrug.

“But this is how you’ve been doing things for fifteen years?”

He nods, “Since the beginning, yeah.” 

“OK,” you draw out. It all sounds very well thought-out and it might just be the reason why they’ve never been caught. You remember your questions from this afternoon then, “Have you ever uh,” you search for the right words, “been out in the field? I don’t know how to put it.”

He shakes his head, “No, like with Josh I’m in the background.”

“You’re the mastermind,” you offer.

He shrugs, “I guess.”

“Can they ever be linked back to you?” It seems like he’s been very careful and you wonder just how much the guys know, “Do they know it’s for Josh?”

“No, not directly” he shakes his head and pushes himself off the counter, grabbing the bottle of wine to fill up both your glasses, “They don’t get their information from me, there’s someone I give orders to and then he relays it to the guys through a complicated system. And they don’t know what the money’s for, just that the more they walk away with, the more they get.” 

“Huh,” you say, taking your full glass from him, “It all sounds pretty solid, but you must worry.”

“Oh, I do,” he admits easily, “every single day.” 

The timer on your phone goes off then, letting you know your stew is done. Sebastian lets you know he’ll set the table when you tell him you’re going to start plating up. 

=X=X=

You’re back outside, this time sitting next to each other the lounge set in the far corner of the deck, enjoying one of the most beautiful sunsets you’ve seen in the last couple years. The conversation over dinner had a lighter tone, and Sebastian mostly talked about his mother and stepfather and how he used some of his money to send them off on trips to Europe and Asia. And now that you’re outside again, with the dark slowly setting in, covered by a light blanket he’s found in one of the closets somewhere, you don’t really want to go back to the much more serious conversation you had before dinner. 

“Where’s your head at, dragă?” He asks, his voice interrupting your thoughts.

You look to your right, finding his eyes, and you smile, a genuine one this time, “Nowhere. Just enjoying the moment.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You hold his gaze, studying his face in the twilight, and you’re surprised to see he looks as at peace as you feel at this moment, “If only we could stop time, huh?”

“If only we could,” he agrees. He puts his arms around your shoulder then and presses a kiss to your temple before you pulls you close. 

Letting yourself lean into him you suddenly you catch a whiff of his cologne, smiling a secret smile when you realize it’s the same one you gave him on your one-year anniversary. You wonder if he’s been wearing it ever since or if he’s just now put it on again. 

You’re not sure how long you’re sat like this, but after a while it gets colder and you shiver involuntarily. It’s dark now, except for a some stars in the night sky and the lights of a couple of fishing boats way in the distance. Without thinking you snuggle up closer to Sebastian, letting out a content sigh when he wraps his arm around you even tighter. 

“We should get inside,” he whispers from somewhere over your head. “It’s late and we need to leave early tomorrow.” 

You want to ask why, but then you remember you’re going to see Josh and so you follow him inside without much protest, leaving the blanket somewhere on the couch. He lets you lead the way upstairs, turning off the lights as you go, following you into the bathroom where you brush your teeth side by side. You risk a glance at him in the mirror and for a moment you wonder if this is what you’re future could look like with him next to you. 

He finds your eyes in the mirror and smiles at you, bumping his shoulder against yours. 

You change into your t-shirt and sweatpants again before crawling into bed. Like last night Sebastian’s just in his t-shirt and boxers, and like last night, he keeps his distance once you’re in bed. You, however, move closer to him, not quite touching him but close enough that you could if you wanted. 

He turns off the lights then, “Goodnight, draga mea.”

Almost automatically you answer with was he’s taught you a long time ago, “ _Te voi vedea în visele mele_.”

I will see you in my dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

Even though you have been awake for quite some time now, you can tell by Sebastian’s steady breathing that he’s still vast asleep and so you get out of bed slowly, careful not to wake him. There’s just enough sunlight peeking through the curtains to help you find your clothes without much trouble and you quietly make your way to the bathroom.

Saturday, you think to yourself as the warm water hits your back, day six of this new life where you’re keeping information from the police and playing house with a criminal. You roll your eyes and shake your head at what your life has become, fully understanding that you can never go back to the way things were. It’s fine. Except for maybe your colleagues at Carver State there’s not much to go back to anyway. 

Your shower’s quick and you make your way downstairs just a couple of minutes later, barefoot like yesterday, but this time wearing a denim, knee-length shift dress. Coffee first, you decide, and you find what you need in the cabinets and turn on the machine before you raid the fridge to put together a healthy breakfast with what you got at Lowes yesterday.

The coffee’s almost done when you hear noises coming from upstairs and this time it’s Sebastian who asks you if he still has time to take a shower. 

“Yeah,” you reply with a smile, while you continue to set the table. Or breakfast bar. Whatever.

You hear the water being turned off a couple of minutes later and as if on cue you turn the toaster on, your hands resting on the counter top as you wait for the bread to pop up. The smell of toast starts filling the air and for a moment it takes you back to Saturday morning in your childhood home. Suddenly, there are hands on your hips and then he’s kissing your neck, making you jump because you didn’t hear him walk in. You mutter a quiet, “Jesus,” because he surprised you, and you feel him step back.

“Shit, sorry,” 

You scrunch your nose, your back still turned to him, because yes, it was unexpected, but also because you kind of want him to keep his hands there and you don’t know how to make it less awkward.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and there’s no doubt in your mind he’s running his hand through his hair nervously this very second. “I don’t know what came over me.” He chuckles then, trying to ease the tension, “Force of habit, I guess.” 

Really, you want to bite back, after all these years? But you don’t, because you really, really need to let that go. So instead you turn around with a sly smile, “Just give a little heads up next time, Stan.”

His eyes go wide in surprise although he doesn’t say anything and just nods. Sitting down he takes the cup of coffee you’re sliding towards him, his head low when he says, “I want you to know I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be-” you start, because really, it was no big deal.

“No,” he interrupts you, “that’s not what I meant. Well, also, I guess, but I uh,” he runs his hand through his hair (again) and looks up at you, “I’m sorry about yesterday. What I said about needing you.” 

“Oh, Seb, really-”

“No, let me finish.” He raises his eyebrows and you understand what he wants and so you nod to let him know you won’t interrupt. He clears his throat before he continues, “I uh, I thought about it a lot yesterday while you were out, and again last night and I realized that I should never have asked you that. It was,” he pauses, almost like he’s looking for the right words. He smiles then, repeating what you said, “It was a fucking big ask and it wouldn’t be fair in any situation, let alone the one we’re in right now, but even more so because I wasn’t there for you when needed me most.” 

He nods then, lowering his eyes, a whispered, “So, please, forget I even asked,” following.

The sincerity in his voice surprises you and for a moment you are actually at a loss for words. But then you realize something and before you know it the words come out, “It’s ok.” 

And, as if your body has a mind of its own, you find yourself rounding the breakfast bar, ending up behind him, watching him as he turns around in his seat. A stampede of butterflies flutters around in your stomach when you throw your arms around his neck, taking a step forward so you’re standing in between his legs, pulling him closer. “It’s ok,” you say again, and you mean it. It’s time to put that part of your past behind you, it’s been sixteen years, for God’s sake. 

His arms find their way around your waist and he pulls you even closer, and the gesture feels weirdly desperate, almost as if he needs you for support. But then you guess in a way he does. You realize you haven’t held him like this since you were in the hospital waiting for the doctors to inform you of Josh’ condition and somehow it seems fitting. Full circle, or something like that anyway.

“Thank you,” he says then, his voice low as he lets you go. His lips brush your cheek, placing a chaste kiss there before he drops his hands back in his lap. 

You return to your side of the breakfast bar, with so much more you still want to tell him, but the words failing you, and it doesn’t really feel like the right time either. Maybe later. Maybe tonight.

=X=X=  
  


Sebastian suggests taking your car for the trip to Columbia and you don’t really see any reason why not, especially after he offers to drive. You let your head rest against the window as soon as you hit the mainland, knowing there’s a good two-and-a-half hours left before you get to Chestnut Hill Nursing home, just outside the city. You keep stealing glances in his direction, taking him in because he looks ridiculously good in his black jeans, and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

He leans forward then and you quickly avert your eyes, but he’s going for the radio, changing it to a station that only plays eighties music. He’s quietly singing along to a Bruce Springsteen song while you watch the world pass you by and all of sudden the whole thing feels so wholeheartedly nostalgic that you find yourself getting lost thinking about the one, big, what if.

What if you had stayed together? 

Would that have been enough to keep him out of what he’s involved in now? Would you have not lost the baby? Would you have gotten married? Started a family? There’s a tug at your heart then when you realize that if you hadn’t lost the baby, you would have had a fifteen-year old by now. 

Suddenly an image of a moody teenager sitting in the backseat pops into your mind, a boy, because that’s what the doctor told you after he gave you the news that you were no longer going to be a mom.

The kid would probably be sulking because you’re making him go see uncle Josh when he much rather would have stayed at home to play video games. You’d tell him uncle Josh would be happy to see him, and promise to make it up to him with a stop at your favourite ice cream shop on the way home. Sebastian would tell him that this is all part of growing up, not doing things you specifically want to do but doing them anyway because it’ll make you feel better afterward. 

God, Sebastian would make a great dad. 

It’s too much, this fantasizing about what could have been, and you can feel tears forming in your eyes at an alarming rate. No matter how hard you try, there’s no blinking them away, and so you try to be subtle, dabbing at your eyes with the back of your hand, but of course he notices.

There’s a quick glance in your direction, before he asks, “You ok?” his voice filled with worry.

You try to tell him that you’re fine, but nothing comes out for a while and when it does, it’s not what you had in mind, “It was a boy.”

You’re not sure he understands what you’re talking about, but once again he surprises you as he puts his hand on your knee and gives it a little squeeze, “I could tell you I was sorry until the end of time and it still wouldn’t be enough.” 

Without thinking you take his hand, because somehow you understand this is still very much his loss too, “I know.”

His thumb gently strokes the inside of your wrist, but he doesn’t look at you, his eyes on the road. His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally speaks again, “I’m sorry, dragă.” He squeezes your hand, “For everything.” 

“I know,” you say again, because really, you do. You don’t agree with what he did, and never will, but there’s still some part of you that understands why he did it, even though you are not sure you’re thinking about what he did sixteen years ago or what he has been doing over the last fifteen years. Maybe both. 

You remember his mother’s words then, about how he’s changed but how that boy you know and love is still there. She was right, it’s not all bad. Most of it is, there’s no doubt about that, but there’s still good in him. Maybe even more so now than before. 

=X=X=

Once you turn off the freeway the road leads you through a lush forest and up the world’s longest driveway. It’s a little after one in the afternoon when you pull up to a big mansion, Sebastian manoeuvring your car into one of the free parking spots with ease. He looks at you, “Here we are.”

You lean forward in your seat, trying to take in the immense building in front of you, wondering out loud if this used to be a plantation. Sebastian hasn’t heard you though, because he’s already out of the car, greeting what seems to be a nurse making her way towards him. You unbuckle your seat belt and grab your purse before you are introduced to Elizabeth, who insists you call her Betty. 

You follow Betty and Sebastian inside, where she makes you sign the visitor’s log while Sebastian explains he’s listed as Josh’ emergency contact and doesn’t have to sign in anymore. You write your name down in what appears to be a very empty log and you wonder just how many people live here and if there’s anyone visiting them. It doesn’t seem like it. Before you have a chance to ask, Betty and Sebastian are on the move again, and you follow them down a long corridor towards what Betty informs you is the sun room. 

While Sebastian asks her about some tests they did on Josh a couple of days ago, you follow a little behind, taking in all the art that’s lining the walls. There’s a wheelchair parked outside the room Betty’s taking you to and you realize you haven’t given Josh’ condition much thought up until now. You wonder what’s become of him and it’s then you hear Betty tell Sebastian that he isn’t in the best of moods today so you’ll guess you find out soon enough, preparing yourself for the worst. 

Betty opens the door to the sun room then and steps aside, allowing you to pass. You fight the urge to take Sebastian’s hand for comfort and instead follow him inside to where there’s a man sitting in a chair. He’s wearing a beanie, even though it’s mid-June and not at all cold outside, the sun having warmed up the room significantly already. His posture is very rigid, his hands resting on top of the armrests of the chair, but his fingers barely touching the fabric. Sebastian’s standing in front of him now, effectively blocking out the sun, a sad smile on his lips when he says, “Hey brother.”

You watch as he gives Josh a gentle hug, and you can tell he’s careful to not hold him too tight, before he pulls up a chair and sits down on his right. Josh doesn’t really respond and keeps his eyes trained on the window, barely even acknowledging Sebastian. Must be the bad mood Betty warned you about. 

Sebastian nods at you then to let you know it’s ok and so you take a step forward, swallowing a gasp when you see Josh’ face. It’s badly scarred and it looks like it must hurt, the skin still an angry red in some spots. His left eye is milky-white, while his right keeps moving around and you wonder just how much he can still see. 

Stepping in front of him, blocking out a little less sunlight than Sebastian did, you can tell Josh knows there’s someone else in the room by the way he lifts his head up and seems to look for you. You clear your throat, although your voice is barely above a whisper when you say “Hi Josh,”

It takes him a moment, but he chuckles then, his right hand curling into a fist and finding Sebastian’s upper arm perfectly as he gently stomps it, “I can’t believe it actually worked!” 

Before you can ask what this is about, because why the fuck does Sebastian look so flustered all of a sudden, Josh turns his attention back to you, “I never thought I’d see you again, Squeaks”

You can’t help but smile at the use of your old nickname, even though Josh was the only one who ever called you that. He’s smiling too and tells you to sit down because you’re blocking his light and he’s working on his tan, thank you very much. 

You see Sebastian shake his head at Josh’ wry sense of humour before he pulls up a chair for you, moving over so you can sit in between him and Josh. You’re not really sure how to start, so there’s a bit of an uncomfortable silence before you decide to just go for it and turn towards your left, “I feel stupid for even asking this, but how are you?”

Josh’ smile drops, his tone more serious now, “I have my good and my bad days.” He chuckles then, but the sound doesn’t have any warmth to it, “I fucked up when was younger and I’m still paying the price for that.” 

He never was one to beat around the bush.

He points towards his face, “Left eye’s completely fucked, right eye’s seventy percent fucked, sixty percent of my body’s covered in third degree burns, I’ve had more bouts of pneumonia than I can keep track off and I have been close to dying, oh I’d say about four times now, due to infections wreaking havoc on my body.” He says it all so matter-of-factly that you wonder how many times he’s already told someone this, but he continues then, “I’m getting immune to almost every known antibiotic out there and I’m going to need a new sort of therapy that has a ten percent chance of succeeding. So, yeah. I try not to think about it too much.” 

“Fuck,” you whisper quietly, because you never knew it was this bad. 

“You can say that again,” Josh agrees with a nod of his head. He points to Sebastian then, “If it wasn’t for this guy I would have given up a long time ago.”

“Hmm,” you reply, not really knowing what else to say. There are some things you want to ask Josh, but not necessarily with Sebastian around. You know it’s a long shot, but you decide to ask him anyway, “Seb? You think you could give Josh and me a minute?” 

“Oh shit,” Josh chuckles. “Am I in trouble?”.

Before you can saying anything, Sebastian asks, “You sure you can handle her?” It seem like he’s trying to make light of the situation even though you can tell he’s doesn’t like this sudden change of plans. 

Josh nods and so Sebastian gets up, muttering something about having to see someone about something anyway. Just as Sebastian walks outside the nurse from earlier walks inside, pushing what seems to be a bar cart. 

“I’ll take an apple juice, Betty,” Josh says, probably having heard her come in. Then with a grin, “I think we’ll give my friend here a cup of coffee even though I’m sure she’d much rather have something with alcohol.” 

“Josh,” you hiss, but can’t help but smile, because if anything he seems to still have his sense of humour. You watch as Betty puts your cup on the coffee table before she hands Josh his glass and wait until she’s out of the room again before you turn to him. 

“Squeaks, I know what he does,” he says before you can even ask anything, his voice low, “I know how he gets the money.”

“Ok,” you draw out slowly, “and you’re ok with that?”

“Of course not,” he bites back, a scowl on his face. His features soften then, “I’ve told him to stop several times, but,” he sighs, “there’s always more. More therapy, more medicine, more whatever it is I need, which means there are always more bills to pay too. You know how stubborn he is. If I tell him I don’t want his money he’ll find another way to make sure the bills are paid.”

“Don’t you worry what will happen when he gets caught?”

“Always the realist out of us three,” he says, sounding almost proud. “Of course I do, but where’s that going to get me? You know as well as I do that I can’t stop him.”

“I know,” you admit quietly.

“I’m glad you’re here though,” he says, smiling. “He’s going to need you.”

“For what?” 

“Wasn’t it genius, having our initials up on those vests?” he asks, effectively ignoring your question. “I came up with that, you know? I knew you’d recognize them.”

“Josh,” you start, but don’t really know how to go from there because what the fuck is going on? Why does it starting to feel like you being here was all part of some big, elaborate plan they conjured up together? What’s the purpose of all of this? 

“He misses you, you know?” Josh sits up in his chair and turns to you, “And it didn’t get better with time, you know, like you’d expect. He never really talks about it, but I know him well enough that he doesn’t have too. I guess he keeps wondering what could have been.” 

You don’t know how to respond and so you keep silent.

“There’s a way out of this,” he says then, leaning closer to you, his voice low, “for both of you.”

  
=X=X=  
  


“So you promise?” Josh asks again, his hand on yours.

“I promise,” you agree, swallowing back some tears when the severity of the situation hits you. 

“Promise what?” Sebastian asks when he steps back into the sun room with a grin.

“Promise to go on a date with me some time,” Josh says without missing a beat, a smile now plastered on his face. 

You wonder if Sebastian notices the abrupt change of subject, but if he does he doesn’t comment on it. Instead he looks at you, “They want us to go. Visiting hours have been over for a while” 

You nod, “Ok,” and grab your purse before you turn to Josh and lean in to give him a careful hug, your mouth close to his ear when you whisper, “Thank you.” 

“Just know I’m rooting for you two, kid” he says, pulling you just a little tighter.

You walk out then, giving Sebastian some room to say goodbye to Josh. And to hopefully keep him from seeing you cry. From behind the front desk nurse Betty reminds you to sign out of the visitor’s log, her eyes filled with concern when she sees how upset you are. She doesn’t say anything, and you’re glad, because you’re sure that if she had, you would end up telling her everything. Instead you simply tell her, “Goodbye,” and make your way outside, the fresh air helping you regain at least some of your composure. You lean against the side of the car, waiting for Sebastian to catch up with you, while you relish in the warmth of the sun that’s now hanging low in the sky. Must have been here longer than you thought, you think to yourself. 

It takes a while for Sebastian to join you and you can tell from the way his jaw is set that he’s not up for talking. Josh must have set things in motion then, although you wonder just how much he’s told Sebastian. And if it’s the first time Sebastian has heard it. You doubt it.

You guess there’s a lot to think about for the both of you and so the drive back is silent, each of you lost in your own thoughts. 

  
=X=X=  
  


It’s dark when Sebastian pulls up in front the beach house and for a moment you just sit in the car together, the engine slowly ticking to a stop. It feels safe in here, like you’re in a bubble where no one can touch you, where the outside world doesn’t exist. 

“Are you sure you’re ok with this?” 

You nod, knowing exactly what he’s getting at, “Yes.”

“It won’t be easy,”

“I know,”

“They’ll be relentless once they take you in, question you to the nth degree.” He runs a hand over his face before he turns to you, “We don’t know if it’ll will work.”

“It will,” you reassure him, simply because it has to. There’s no other way. You look out of the window then, blinking back a tear, “It will.”

“We should get inside,”

“Yeah,” you agree and unbuckle your seat belt. You’re not surprised when he offers you his hand when you round the car, and you take it without hesitation, leaning into him a little as you make your way to the front door. You don’t let go, not even when you get inside and he closes the door behind you, needing the contact. 

He turns to you, “Our last night together then, I guess.”

“I guess so,” you reply, a sad smile playing around your lips. You don’t want this to end, not yet, but you know it has to. Especially after you promised Josh you’d do your part. 

You look up at him, only to find him staring back at you. He’s not smiling though, instead his eyes are darkened with what you know is lust. It makes your knees go fucking weak because no one has ever looked at you like that except for him. You anticipate his next move and so you’re not surprised when he gently pushes you back until your back meets the wall. 

He lets go of your hand while he uses his knee to spread your legs, and places his hands on either side of your head, effectively boxing you in. He lowers his head then, lips ghosting across your jaw before they stop at your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine, “Tell me to stop and I will, but if you don’t I take it you’re in, dragă.” 

“Of course I’m in,” you reply, your voice hoarse, your hands in his hair then, using them to guide his mouth toward yours. There’s nothing soft or subtle about the kiss, instead there’s a need to it that has on you on edge right away, your teeth dragging across his lower lip, begging him to let you in.

He does and your tongue find his with ease, your hands in his hair pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. He pushes into you more and you moan when you feel his erection press against you. His hands find their way to your hips, his fingers bunching up the fabric of your dress and pushing it higher, exposing your panties. He pulls back then, and you whimper at the loss of contact, but there’s a wicked grin on his lips just before he sinks to his knees and starts kissing the inside of your thigh.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper when he takes your leg and drapes it over his shoulder, placing a kiss on the very wet fabric of your panties at the same time. You arch your back, wanting more, hands in his hair again to hold him in place. You feel his thumb rubbing circles on your clit, the fabric in between adding extra friction, and it actually makes you shiver.

He uses his thumb to push the fabric aside, his mouth latching onto your throbbing clit then, looking up at you through hooded eyes and you nearly come right there and then. He pulls back a little, softly blowing on the spot where his mouth was a few seconds ago, his fingers then hooking in the fabric of your panties and pulling them down.

“Seb, please,” you groan, not liking this loss of contact. 

He grins back at you, “Ready?”

All you can do is nod, but he doesn’t need any more encouragement and it’s all mouth, tongue and teeth from there on out, bringing your dangerously close in just a couple of minutes. You try to hold off as long as you can, but then he slides his fingers in, two at once, finding your G-spot so effortlessly that you come with a loud, “Oh fuck.”

He keeps licking, helping you come down from your high gently, until you release your fingers from his hair and let out a content sigh. He pulls back then, pushing himself up, placing a chaste kiss on your lips before his grin returns. 

You smile, pulling him in for another kiss, still tasting yourself on his lips. Dragging your teeth across his lower lip you let your hand slide down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as you go along. You let your fingers dance across the now-exposed skin of his stomach, marvelling at how muscular he really is. Still kissing him, you find the button of his jeans and you open it, sliding your hand inside and cupping him through his boxers. 

He groans at your touch and you use his momentary lack of focus to turn the both of you around so that he’s now up against the wall, your hand still holding him even though you can feel him wanting to get out. You let your mouth trail from his jaw to his nipples, licking one before you gently bite the other and you can’t help but smile when you feel him grow in your hand. You slowly make your way down, your tongue tracing the hem of his boxers before you pull your hand out and push down his boxers and jeans in one swift motion.

You look at him and raise an eyebrow, pumping him a few times before get down on your knees and run your tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, cleaning up the pre-cum. You take him into your mouth slowly, enjoying the feel of the thick vein against your tongue and then remembering how good he used to, and still does, taste as you bop your head up and down.

His fingers lace through your hair, keeping your head in place but never pushing you, instead letting you set the pace. You can tell he’s getting there from the way his breathing picks up and so you add your hands to the mix, one hand cupping his balls while the other follows your mouth up and down his shaft. 

“Fuck, dragă, I’m close,” he growls, and you take that as your cue to pull back with an audible pop. You’ve only just stood up when you feel his strong hands lift you up and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he carries upstairs, his erection pressing against your core. You pull your dress up and over your head just as he puts you down, your bra following shortly after. 

His eyes travel over your body as you stand there naked in front of him, a low, “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” escaping him. 

You hold out your hand and when he takes it you pull him towards you, slowly lowering yourself on the bed. You watch him through hooded lids as he lowers himself onto you, entering you slowly, not bothering with a condom because honestly, it never even crosses your mind to do so. 

He fills you up perfectly, like he always did, your bodies almost melting together and you easily admit, “I missed you.” Kissing him then, the need behind it hopefully adding to the sentiment. He starts to thrust harder then and you match his rhythm effortlessly, bucking your hips up whenever he thrusts into you, arching your back when his mouth latches onto your breast. He’s keeping himself up with one arm, his other hand finding your clit, gently rubbing circles around it, bringing you closer and closer.

“Fuck,” you draw out, feeling your orgasm rapidly approaching. You cup his face and bring it up to yours, never taking your eyes off of his as your orgasm washes over you. His pupils are blown and you when you see him swallow hard you know he’s right behind you, a smile tugging on your lips, “Come for me, Seb.”

It takes a few more thrusts to send him over the edge, but when he does buries his face in your neck, biting down on your skin as he growls, “I missed you too, dragă.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Something feels off when you wake up. 

You reach for your phone, finding it somewhere under your pillow, and when you push the home-button to reveal the time you’re surprised to learn it’s almost noon. You roll over only to find his side of the bed empty and a heavy feeling settles somewhere deep inside of you because you know he’s not just downstairs making you breakfast. 

Almost out of habit you get up and make your way to the shower, deciding there’s no need to stay and drag out the inevitable. It won’t make him come back. 

He’s gone.

The warm water does nothing to comfort you and so your shower is quick. You settle on black jeans and a black top for today, deeming the lack of colour fit for the mood you’re in. You pack your duffel bag without too much finesse, figuring it all needs to be washed when you get home anyway. Looking around the bedroom one last time to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything, you grab your bag and make your way downstairs. 

The house feels weirdly empty, even though you can’t exactly tell what it is that is missing. Maybe just Sebastian’s presence, you muse quietly as you make your way to the kitchen to do, well, you’re not sure what exactly. But are you surprised to find an envelope on the kitchen counter, propped up against what has become your coffee mug over the last three days? No. Of course not. 

There’s nothing written on the back this time, but who else would it be for? And so you carefully fold it and put it in your back pocket, not wanting to read it just yet. Not here, anyway. With no real need or reason to stay here you walk back to hall, where you find your trusted black Converse in the exact same spot you kicked them off, and as you put them on a smile creeps up on your lips when you remember everything he did to you last night, not just here but in the bedroom as well. It’s bittersweet now, for sure, but God did it feel good. 

With your shoes on, your duffel bag slung over your shoulder and your purse in your hand you step outside, using the key his mother gave you to lock the door even though it’s not really necessary. The police will get in either way if they want to. There’s a last glance at the house before you get in your car, a single tear running down your cheek, knowing very well you’ll never come here again.

It doesn’t matter, he won’t be here anyway.   
  
=X=X=  
  


The drive home is quick, with a short stop somewhere in Georgetown for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and you’re home just before five. It feels like you’ve been gone a lot longer than just four days and so you’re a bit surprised to find your house pretty much the way you left it, all your plants still very much alive. God, you’ll miss it here, you think to yourself, making a mental note to contact your landlord first thing tomorrow morning. 

But not tonight. 

Tonight, you decided on your way here, you get to wallow, and have a drink or two, and feel incredibly sorry for yourself. You’ve earned it. And so an hour later you find yourself on the couch, a just-delivered pizza sitting in its box next to you, a bottle of beer in your hand, and the envelope you found in the beach house sitting in your lap. The TV is showing reruns of Friends and because you’ve seen every episode at least five times already, it’s just background noise at this point. 

You’ve finished three slices of pizza and half your bottle of beer when you open the envelope, finding a postcard with greetings from the state of California. Turning it over you find a sequence of numbers written on the back which you somehow know are coordinates.

40°25'50.2"N 124°24'00.1"W

You’re a little disappointed there’s no note, no ‘I miss you’, but you get it, there’s no need to risk it. Saving the numbers as contact details for Bonnie and Clyde in your phone, you smile at the inside joke, and adding the numbers needed to make it seem like legit phone numbers. You tear up the postcard then, tiny little pieces that you burn with the use of a candle, once again very aware that you’re hiding something from the police.   
  
=X=X=  
  


The first thing you do after breakfast on Monday morning is call Bert, telling him you’d like to speak to him. He sounds worried when he agrees to see you and you want to tell him not to, but you really don’t want to lie to him just yet and so you don’t say anything except for a, “See you Wednesday then, Bert.” before you hang up. 

Your landlord is a little more difficult to get a hold of and it takes you three tries to finally reach her. 

“Darling,” she says, her voice raw from years of smoking and a love for whiskey that makes you wonder how she’s still so alive and well, “how are you? Nothing wrong with the house, I hope?”

“No,” you smile, even though she can’t see you. “I just wanted to let you know I’d like to end my contract at the end of August, Estelle.” 

“It’s not even the end of June, darling,” Estelle offers, “you know the notice period is only two months, right?” 

“I know,” you reply, “but there’s a lot going on and I really wanted to give you a heads up.” 

Estelle hums in agreement before she asks why you’re moving out.

“I uh,” the lie comes easy then, “I start a new job on September first. Out of state, so,”

“Well, I’ll miss you, darling,” Estelle says. “Call me when you’re ready to hand over the key?”

“Sure,” you agree, even though you’ve already planned to send it to her by post once the time comes. “Thanks, Estelle. For everything.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” she says, the familiar sound in the background telling you she’s lighting her cigarette, “I’ll see you.” 

“Bye.”  
  
=X=X=  
  


Hands on your hips, you take a look around your living room, a little overwhelmed at where to start. Not wanting to make it too obvious to whoever might visit you in the foreseeable future, even though there’s a slim chance someone actually will, you decide to first pack the things you want to take with you, knowing it will be the bare minimum and won’t really show as a lot of things missing. You grab a moving box from the stack you picked up at Home Depot yesterday after your call with Estelle, and fold it into shape. Photo albums first then, followed by your favourite books, and a couple of the little trinkets that live on the shelves next to your books, but only the ones that have meaning. Like the figurine of a squirrel that Josh gave you for your twentieth birthday, to justify the use of your nickname. 

You fill two boxes easily and haul them to the laundry room at the back of the house to avoid them being seen, and allow yourself one more box that’s not clothes. The battered old cardboard box, filled with memories from high school including your senior yearbook, goes in first, followed by bits and pieces you collect from all over the house. This box joins the other two and that’s enough for today, you figure. You can’t really pack your clothes yet, and that’s done rather quickly anyway. 

There’s a knock on your door then, and you quickly hide the remaining unfolded boxes behind your couch before you answer it, very surprised to see your old neighbour standing on your doorstep, “Mrs Johnson?” 

She just smiles and hands you a little box.

You take it from her cautiously, “Uh, thank you?”

She nods, “I’ll be seeing you,” and then turns around and walks away so briskly it takes you a moment to register she’s gone. Looking around to see if anyone has seen you, you’re relieved to find the street empty otherwise and you retreat back inside.

The box holds an older model phone and a piece of paper with a code to unlock it. 

0813

His birthday. 

You can’t help but smile when you punch in the code. The phone unlocks, letting you know you’ve got one new message waiting for you. Butterflies roam around in your stomach when you click on the message icon and read what he’s send you:

 _Went to see him. He’s ready. Photo is sent._

It’s cryptic but it tells you everything you need to know.  
  
=X=X=  
  


“Oh shit,” you mutter when you see his name flash up on your screen. You’re on your way to Carver State to see Bert, and this was the last thing on your mind. Stupid. Maybe it’s nothing, you think, trying to calm yourself. Maybe he’s just checking in on you, you reason, but you know it’s bullshit. 

“Hello?” you answer on the third ring, as if you don’t have his number saved in your phone.

“This is Detective Johansson,” his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “I need you to come into the station.”

“OK,” you draw out.

“We have some new information I’d like to present to you,” he continues. “The sooner you can get here, the better.”

Fuck. 

“Uh, yes, sure,” you clear your throat, trying to sound like you’re willing to help with whatever it is he needs. “I’m just on my way to see my boss, but I could come by after that? Around three?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure,” you say, trying to sound relieved when instead you’re getting more and more worried about how you’ll be able to pull this off. You wait for him to tell you he’ll see you then, but he’s already ended the call and you’re reminded once again why you don’t like him.

You arrive at Carver State then, parking in your usual spot, taking a deep breath before you get out of the car. Of all the things you have to do, this is the one you least look forward to.  
  
=X=X=  
  


“I’m really sorry, Bert,” you say once again, drying your eyes.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he replies, gently patting your arm, “I understand.” He smiles then, “Honestly, I always knew this day would come, kid. It’s ok. You deserve so much more in life than to just be a bank teller.”

“Thank you,” you sob, because he’s too kind and you feel so, so bad for lying.

“Listen,” he says, sighing then. “You still have a week of leave left and after that it’s just a couple of days until the end of the month,” he smiles a sad smile, “I’m happy to just consider last Monday as your last day here. The sooner you get to chase your dreams the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Really?”

He nods, “Yeah, it’s fine. The school holidays are starting anyway and you know as well as I do that it won’t be as busy anyway.” 

“Thank you,” you say before you get up and give him a hug. 

“Do you want to, I don’t know, go out for dinner with the team as a going-away party or,”

“Oh no, no that’s fine,” you jump in, shaking your head. “If it’s ok with you, I’m just going to swing by Bea and Louise before I leave and then I’d much rather see you all again when I get back.” You throw him a wink, “Much more to tell you then anyway.” 

“Yeah,” Bert agrees, “God, I can’t believe you’re really going to spend the next year volunteering in South America.” 

Lies. Lies. Lies.  
  
=X=X=  
  


“So,” Detective Johansson says, sliding a picture towards you, “we got this in the mail yesterday.”

You take the copy and try to hide your smile when you see it’s the one of Josh from his twentieth birthday party, just before that awful New Year’s Eve. The same one he showed to you on Saturday. But this one has something written on the back in handwriting you don’t recognize:

_This is your guy._

“Care to tell me who that is?”

You look up, keeping your voice soft, “Josh Hughes. We went to high school together.” You meet your own eyes in the two-way mirror that’s behind Detective Johansson, and you study yourself for just moment, relieved to see you look relatively normal. You were a little shocked when he took you to an interrogation room and actually locked the door, as if you might plan on escaping. 

“Now, of course we do our job when we get something like this,” he says, interrupting your thoughts. Detective Johansson leans back in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chair, “Didn’t take long, Chestnut Hill Nursing Home, right?”

You just nod.

“Sent one of our guys there yesterday afternoon,” he eyes you cautiously, “he asked around a bit. Talked to nurse Betty who showed him the visitor’s log.“ He leans forward then, taking another piece of paper out of his folder and slides it across the table, “Care to tell me why you visited Josh last Saturday?” A copy of the visitor’s log stares back at you, your name still the only one there. 

Just like you rehearsed, you think, “Because I also got a picture last week.” 

You open your purse and take out the photo, a little worse for wear now that it has been in your purse for a few days. You hold onto it, the lie coming easily, “I found it like this, in my mailbox, no envelope, nothing. Just a picture of some graffiti that I vaguely recognized.” 

You hand the picture over then, “It’s only when I looked closer that I saw the initials in the bottom right corner,” you wait until Detective Johansson sees them too before you continue, “and then I realized they were the same initials that were on the guys’ bulletproof vests.” 

Detective Johansson’s eyes go wide, if only for a second, before he regains his composure, but it tells you that he hadn’t even noticed it before, which makes you hide a smile.

“I know I should have come to you,” you say, dropping your eyes to add to the act, “but I just couldn’t believe Josh was behind the robbery. I wanted to talk to him first.” You keep looking at your hands that are folded together in your lap, “He told me he wanted to confess so I offered to call the police, but he,” you clear your throat, giving yourself some time to remember the words correctly, “he said he wanted to do it on his own terms and I believed him.” 

You look up at Detective Johansson, your eyes wide in what you hope looks like shock, “Do you think he’s behind all those robberies?”

“Do you think that’s why the robbers recognized you?” Detective Johansson asks, ignoring your question.

You shrug, “Maybe.”

“Well,” the Detective starts, taking a plastic bag out of his pocket, bagging the photo, “As you know Mr Hughes is in bad shape, and even though he says he wants to help us as much as he can we are facing quite the challenge,” he sighs. “We need to conduct both a thorough and quick investigation and,” he shakes his head, “nothing good ever comes from those.”

“Do you need more from me then?” you ask, hesitantly.

“Yes,” he nods. He sits up then, even more serious, “If I wanted to I could have you arrested right now. Charge you with the obstruction of an ongoing investigation.” 

You just nod.

“You’re an accessory after the fact, as far as I’m concerned.” His eyes stare into yours, “In a few minutes an officer is going to come in here and he will take your statement, starting with what happened the minute you walked out of here last week. I suggest you tell him the truth, because if we find so much as a wrong time or place in your statement,” he squints at you and gets up, leaving his threat hanging in the air. 

You watch him as he leaves, shutting the door behind him. Reminding yourself of the two-way mirror you hold your composure, staring at a point on the wall where the paint has chipped to reveal an ugly yellow color underneath. You go over the story you’re supposed to tell over and over again, right until a younger, nervous looking officer walks in and asks if you want something to drink before you start. 

You decline.  
  
=X=X=  
  


You’re turning the burner phone in your hand over and over again as you pace back and forth between your living room and kitchen. You want to call Sebastian, tell him what happened at the police station this afternoon, how you have this inkling that they’re onto you, but you know you can’t. This is the waiting game Josh warned you about, where everything seems to fall apart, but where you just have to wait. 

Wait, wait, wait, until everything rights itself again.

You know the statement you gave is watertight, Josh made sure of that, and you also know Josh will confirm everything you said. But still. There’s this nagging feeling that there’s something you forgot, some minor detail that you did or didn’t mention that will raise questions with Detective Johansson. Every time you hear or see a police cruiser pass by, you cower involuntarily, waiting for the knock on your door where they come to arrest you. 

Trust Josh, you think to yourself. Just trust Josh. 

He didn’t really tell you what his big plan was, just that he’d set things in motion for you to admit that you’d visited him at Chestnut Hill. That was all you had to do really, admit that you went out on an investigation of your own, which took you to the beach house first, then to Chestnut Hill, the nights in between spent in an hotel on the Island. The front desk clerk would confirm your story, Josh assured you, because he’d quit his job about a month later after he’d ‘suddenly’ come to some money and decided to use it on a trip to Mexico. But by then Josh was certain nobody would care anymore. 

Josh assured you that Betty would remember only seeing you that Saturday, as was evident in the visitor’s log, and she too would quit her job a couple of months later, claiming the job became too physically draining for her, when in reality she was going to enjoy her early retirement in a mortgage-free beach house on Pawleys Island. 

The phone beeps then, letting you know there’s another message, and you curse quietly because what the fuck? You unlock it with the code he gave you and open the message, a sad smile on your lips when you read: 

_Heard from Elizabeth. Not long now until you need to call me._  
  
=X=X=  
  


The call from Chestnut Hill comes four days later, nurse Betty’s voice a little hoarse when she tells you, “He passed away in his sleep last night.”

“Oh,” 

“The service is on Thursday,” she says after clearing her throat. “He’d want you there.”

“Thank you.” You hang up the phone then because it’s all too much, your chest tightening when you realize he’s really gone. You talked about this, about his end drawing near, but never in a million years would you have thought it would be so soon. The tears come then, slowly at first, but it’s not long before they spill over and you find yourself sobbing so hard it physically hurts and you let yourself fall to the floor, mourning the loss of what you now know was one of your best friends.

It takes you a while to calm down, the sobs subsiding slowly until you think you’re calmed down enough to face the task at hand. You remind yourself that even though Josh is no longer here, there are still a few vital parts of the plan that need to be executed, with this maybe being the most important one.

You grab your phone and find Sebastian’s real number in your contact list, taking a deep breath before you hit dial.

He picks up on the second ring and because he knows why you’re calling all he says is a quiet, “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” you keep taking deep breaths, if only to keep yourself from crying.”   
  


=X=X=  
  


Even though there are only a couple of rows of chairs in the little chapel in the garden of Chestnut Hill, you notice not even half of them are filled when you make your way inside. Your eyes dart across the few people sitting there, a little disappointed when you don’t see Sebastian among them. You look behind you just as you sit down, finding Detective Johansson leaning against the back wall, his hands in his pockets, looking slightly unimpressed. He acknowledges you with a nod of his head and you do the same.

You wonder if you should text Sebastian, your hand already on your phone, but the minister walks in then, and the service starts, and you figure he’s not coming. There’s a tug at your heart because you really wanted to see him. Hold him. Comfort him.

Let him know you’re still on his side. 

At the same time you wonder why Detective Johansson is here because it doesn’t seem very fitting for a Detective to pay his lasts respects to a suspect, does it?

“Dearly beloved,”

The minister’s voice interrupts your thoughts and you focus on him instead, glad to see him give more of a humanitarian approach to the service than you expected. At some point he invites Betty to say a few words about Josh’ time here and you are pleasantly surprised by how well she seemed to have known him, the warmth in her voice letting everyone know just how much she cared for him. 

The minister ends the service with a simple prayer and invites everyone who wishes to pay their respects to Josh to please do so. You wait until the nursing home staff and a few unfamiliar faces have passed the coffin before you make your way to the front. You bow your head, a sad smile on your lips when you whisper a quiet, “Thank you. For everything.”

The sun is shining when you step outside, the rain clouds from earlier having completely vanished, and you throw a wink at the sky because you’re sure this is Josh’ doing. It’s then you see him, leaning against a tree a little further down the path, his hands in his pockets, the black suit he’s wearing making your heart skip a beat. You walk up to him, slowly, not wanting to draw any attention, and he meets you halfway.

“Dragă,” he says, throwing his arms around you and pulling you close. 

“Oh Seb,” is all you manage to say before you feel the tears you’ve been trying to hold back spill over. 

He holds you until you’re calmed down a bit, kissing your cheek before he lets you go, not saying anything.

Someone clears their throat behind you then and you’re shocked when you see Detective Johansson taking a step towards you.

You look at Sebastian for help but he just winks and you’re not sure how to take this.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Detective Johansson asks once he’s standing next to you.

You nod, “Sure.”

Fuck. 


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Detective Johansson starts, his voice lacking the emotion you weren’t expecting anyway. His eyes are trained on you, as if he’s still looking for clues. “I think you’ll be relieved to hear that Mr Hughes confessed to all the crimes we suspected him off.”

“Relieved is not-”

“We spoke to him at length on Thursday and Friday,” Johansson continues without missing a beat, effectively ignoring you, “and he gave us information that has led us to believe he was behind multiple robberies over the last fifteen years.” He clears his throat, “We also believe that the money stolen was used to pay for his treatment here.”

“Ok,” you draw out, not sure where he’s going with this. He still looks at you like you’re somehow a part of this. Which, technically, you are, but not in the way he might think.

“The investigation is still ongoing,” he pauses, his look falling somewhere over your shoulder to where you know Sebastian is, “we’re hoping to find out who his accomplices were sooner rather than later. We know Mr Hughes couldn’t have pulled this off all by himself.”

The silence that follows his statement feels rehearsed, a way to make you talk, but he should know by now you know how to keep silent. You are glad to hear Josh kept his promise and kept Seb’s team out of this. If what Sebastian has told you is true it should be almost impossible to link back to those guys. Or him.

“While I still believe you should have come to us first,” his voice interrupts your thoughts and you look up at him with what you hope is an apologetic smile, “I also believe that in the light of recent events and Mr Hughes’ confession, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.” He holds out his hand, “You are no longer tied to this investigation.”

“Thank you,” you say as you take his hand and shake it, relieved to hear the words.

He holds on a little too long though and nods to somewhere over your shoulder, “Who’s he?”

You pull your hand back before you glance over your shoulder where you see Sebastian talking to Betty, his hands in his pockets, his demeanour relaxed, as if he has nothing to hide. You can’t help but smile when you turn back to Detective Johansson which is exactly how Josh told you to do it, “That’s Sebastian Stan. He went to high school with Josh and me.” You hesitate, looking down to add to the sentiment, “I used to have the biggest crush on him back then.”

There’s another silence then, not rehearsed this time and so you can tell it makes him a little uncomfortable. 

“I should go,” Detective Johansson says then. “Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye, Detective.” You watch as he walks away, hands tucked somewhere deep in his pockets, his head held high even though his whole body screams defeat. Someone stands beside you then and an involuntary shiver runs down your spine when you catch a whiff of his cologne.

“You ok?”

You just nod.

His hand finds yours then, and he gently squeezes it, “I’ll be seeing you, dragă.”

Letting your head hang you feel his fingers slide out from in between yours and you want to tell him, “Don’t go,” but you can’t. He needs time to grieve, time to mourn the loss of his best friend, time to set part two of Josh’ plan in motion. And so you try blink away the tears that have formed in your eyes, not caring that they end up falling anyway, because you need time too.   
  
=X=X=  
  


Two weeks later you find yourself at the end of yet another tour of your house, to make sure you’re not forgetting anything. Not that there’s much left, the three boxes you wanted to take with you already shipped off to their new destination, and there have been several trips to local thrift shops already to donate books, small trinkets, and whatever else you no longer need. All that’s left inside is the furniture the house came with, some clothes, and toiletries. 

You’re set to officially move in with him early August, just in time to celebrate his birthday together in your new home. To say you are counting down the days would be an understatement. Only thirty-five days left, you realize with a smile.

Your phone beeps then, letting you know you’ve received a new message, your smile growing even wider when you see it’s from him.

_At the airport, almost ready to board, I’ll see you tonight, dragă._

You type a quick reply, telling him you can’t wait. As you turn around to put your phone down on the dining table your eyes fall on the picture of Josh that you’ve put up on the mantle above the fireplace, one of the few things that will stay here until you actually move out. There’s a candle next to the frame that you try to keep burning at all times, but it’s out now and so you set out to find a new one.

When you do, and you’ve placed it in the holder, you take a moment to thank Josh before you light it. You know you’ll never be able to repay him for everything he’s done, that all you can do is live the live he wanted you and Sebastian to have and enjoy every minute of it. 

And that’s exactly what you plan on doing.   
  
=X=X=  
  


“Do you think it worked?”

He shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips when he puts his arm around you, pulling you closer to him, using his feet to softly rock the porch swing you’re both sitting on. 

As you look out over the garden at the back of his mother’s house you spot the moon hanging somewhere low in the night sky. It’s still warm outside, not unusual for the end of July, and the crickets are taking full advantage, their singing almost like a soundtrack to this lovely evening. 

It’s then his mother walks onto the porch, carrying a tray with three tumblers of Scotch that she carefully sets down. She hands each of you a glass before she takes her own, leaning against the railing next to you. Raising her glass, she looks at both of you with a smile, “To my son and getting to meet his new, old girlfriend.” 

You can’t help but smile, holding up your own glass, “Cheers.”

“ _Noroc_ ,” Sebastian says, clinking his glass against his mother’s, then yours. 

“I still don’t really see why we had to do this,” you admit, even though you had a lovely evening. The restaurant he chose was good, of course it was, and the conversation between the three of you flowed effortlessly, like it always did. You still wish his stepfather could have been there too, but he was away for business and couldn’t get out of the trip no matter how hard he tried. 

“Backstory, dragă,” he says quite matter-of-factly. “Just like all those dates I’ve been taking you on for the last month.”

“Hmm,” you agree before taking another sip of your drink.

“It makes sense,” he continues, “at this point in our relationship for you to meet my Mom.” 

“Sebastian,” his mother says then, with the Romanian pronunciation you’ve come to love so much, even though it sounds like she’s berating him. He must hear it too.

“What?” He laughs, “I know it seems,” he hesitates, “silly, for lack of a better word, but we need to do this. As far as Detective Johansson knows we just went to high school together, so it would be weird for her to just move in with me, right?”

Both his mother and you nod.

“It’s all part of Josh’ plan so that we could have a way out,” he says, taking a sip of Scotch before he continues, “we meet again at his funeral, exchange numbers, start texting each other and before you know I’ve asked her on a date.”

“That was a good date,” you muse, thinking back to the Italian place he took you, the same as where you had your first date, the whole evening basically a repeater of that time nineteen years ago. Minus the braces and the giggling on your part. 

“It was,” he agrees, gently kissing your temple. “Just like the five dates we had after that, dragă.”

“But, you live on the other side of the country,” you offer, because you remember Josh’ words too. “And it’s getting serious, because on our last date you asked me to move in with you and I said yes.”

“Yup,” he agrees with a grin, “but it would me weird to move in with me without you meeting my family first, right?”

“Right.”

“So here we are.”

“Here we are,” you echo with a smile, raising your glass once again. 

His mother sighs, “And all this just in case you’re still under investigation? Even though there’s nothing that indicates that you are?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian nods. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Plus, I had a wonderful time tonight,” you offer. “It was great seeing you again, Georgeta,” with a wink then, “under somewhat more normal circumstances than last time anyway.”

She laughs, “I wouldn’t be so sure about those circumstances, _Fată_.”

You feel yourself tear up at the use of the word for both girl and daughter and so you get up and give her a hug, whispering a quiet, “I promise to take care of him,”   
  
=X=X=  
  


**EPILOGUE**

“Seb?” 

There’s no reply and you furrow your brows, because there’s no reason for him not to be at home. You lean in and grab your purse from the passenger’s seat, digging around for your phone to see if he’s called while you were on your way home, but there are no missed calls. Not unusual because the signal is weak once you pass Capetown anyway, even though you are in California and never really not that far from civilization. 

“Seb?” you try again, edging closer to the house, the moon casting a faint glow over the hills around you. Still nothing.

“Fuck,” you mutter quietly, trying your hardest to keep your cool, not wanting to get lost in the what ifs. Still, your mind wanders, figuring that if this means his past has finally caught up with you, you’ve at least had three really good months together here on the west coast. 

You fell instantly in love with the house he built for you, a project he started after he left Pawleys Island. It’s a simple two-story cabin, but it’s home and the view you have of the sea and the rugged coast making you feel like this is where you belong more than Savannah ever did. 

Three months of living here have taught you the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the front porch creaks and so you step onto the second, trying your hardest not to make a sound. There’s a faint glow coming from inside the house and you see the front door is slightly ajar, and is that music you hear coming from inside?

Must be losing your mind, you think and shake your head, trying to gather the courage you know you’ll need to actually step inside. You take a deep breath, step onto the third step, the porch next, making it to the front door in four quick steps. There’s a small smile tugging on your lips then, because yes, there is actually music playing and you recognize the song as one of your favourites from U2. Deciding things can’t be that bad as you thought they would be you open the door, your smile growing even wider.

There’s a trail of lit candles leading from the front door, past the stairs to the living room and you have no other choice than to follow them, closing the front door with your left floor and dropping your purse at the bottom of the stairs. The candles continue through the living room towards the back of the house, where you find the French doors that lead to the terrace are open, a heart of candles waiting for you outside.

It’s there you find him, in the middle of that heart, looking ever so handsome in black jeans, and a simple grey sweater with leather patches on his shoulder, no doubt because you’ve told him countless times how much you love this look on him. He grins at you, a twinkle in his eyes when he holds out his hand and waits for you to take it.

“Seb,” you start, your voice catching somewhere in your throat. 

“Ssh,” he says, taking your hand in his, “you just need to listen, dragă.” 

You join him inside the heart, butterflies taking over your stomach because of course you know where this is going.

“I love you,” he says with a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “And I had this whole speech prepared, but I’m nervous as fuck, so,” he lets go of your hand and takes a small black box out of his pocket, “for now all you need to know is that I love you.”

You want to say something, tell him that you love him too, but it’s then he goes down on one knee and opens the box, “Of all the things I lost in that fire sixteen years ago, losing you was what hurt me the most. I never want to lose you again, dragă, ever.” He looks up at you, tears glistening in his eyes, “Will you please spend the rest of your life with me? Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you say through your own tears, “Always yes.” 

**\- FIN -**


End file.
